


Nine of a Kind

by littlemismatchedteacup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Canon Divergence, Casual Ableism, Dean Bears The Mark of Cain, Dubcon/Noncon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Human Castiel, Infrequent Updates, Jealous Castiel, Kinda Cracky, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Switch Dean, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Dean, Top Misha, WIP, You'll see what I mean, at least two characters display suicidal tendencies, bottom Emmanuel, but only in the godstiel and Levi!Cas chapters, but won't be abandoned I swear, consent issues commonly found in fuck-or-die fics, eventual top castiel, for Dean continuously calling the one Cas 'crazy', references to canon character death, tags pertinent to each chapter posted in author's notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 161,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemismatchedteacup/pseuds/littlemismatchedteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious Men of Letters artifact creating eight extra Castiels sounds like the beginning of a Dean Winchester sex dream. Too bad Leviathan won't quit drooling all over the floor, Jimmy Novak is scary as hell, that Misha guy is a weirdo, Godstiel is a prima donna, Angel Castiel keeps trying to smite Sam, Crazy Cas is a nudist only at the most inappropriate times, Emmanuel is just plain clueless, and endverse Cas is making the entire bunker smell like weed. On second thought, maybe Dean will just hide until this all blows over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clone Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story started out as the selfish desire to do something about the appalling lack of fic with Dean having romantic/sexual interactions with all of the Castiels throughout the series within the setting of a single story. What began as a simple pwp quickly wound up being this beast of a character study (with a gooey, raspberry-flavored, smutty filling :P) Basically, yes, there’s a lot of sex in the story, with more than a dash of humor and angst, and probably won't have much plot outside of the bunker, but it is an opportunity for each of the Castiel’s to have a chance to expand upon their stories since most don’t exist in canon for more than one episode, to go more in-depth than a tv series has time to devote to.
> 
> As this is my first fic, I would really appreciate constructive criticism comments: did you enjoy my writing style, was everyone in character, etc?
> 
> Takes place mid-season 9 (sometime shortly after 9x12, mild canon divergence, in that Charlie is back from Oz and Castiel didn’t steal any angel grace, so he is still wingless and human. However, Gadreel still killed Kevin and Dean took the Mark from Cain. Pertinent Warning and tags will be posted preceding each individual chapter.

              It’s the sign on the door that first tips Dean off that something is seriously wrong. That and, of course, the distressed, typo-riddled text he’d received from Sam half an hour ago when Dean had stopped for lunch after a successful salt-n-burn, telling him succinctly to get his ass back home; there had been an ‘incident.’

              Dean had damn near had a heart attack, thinking renegade angels, Abaddon, fuck - maybe Michael and Lucifer somehow breaking free from the Cage to track the Winchesters down – 'cause ain’t that just their luck nowadays? With a generous bite of cheeseburger still bulging in his mouth, Dean had torn the Impala out of the Biggerson’s parking lot in a cloud of smoke and burning rubber so quickly, cutting off a fugly powder-blue Prius in the process, that he’d nearly missed Sam’s second text: a distinctly sheepish message confirming no one had suffered any bodily harm, but that Dean still needed to make his way back to the bunker - and on the double.

               Sam’s feeble reassurance had done nothing to assuage Dean’s panic. Well, his brother can sue him – it’s been a rough few years, Dean thinks he’s earned the right to be a little paranoid.

               Pushing eighty the entire way back and mangling several traffic laws along the way, he berated himself for leaving Sam alone so soon after Gadreel, cursed Crowley for not yet returning with the First Blade.

              Now he’s back at the bunker, staring apprehensively at a locked room that he knows was previously unoccupied – an empty bedroom that neither Winchester had claimed – reading an inauspicious sign that warns, in Sharpie-black block letters: “DEAN, DO NOT ENTER! SERIOUSLY, LEAVE IT ALONE!”

              Every so often the door thumps, as if a single fist is banging solidly against the wood. The rhythm is a single, ominous note every several seconds that rattles the hinges, never breaking the pattern. Somehow it manages to creep Dean out more than if there’d been more violent thrashing.

              The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickle like he’s being watched. Hand flying to the ivory grip of his Colt 1911 tucked in his jeans, he swings his head to the left, peeking back down the hallway he’s just come down, expecting to catch something nasty sneaking up behind him, ready to strike. Yet the library remains as empty as it had been when he first entered, silent as a freshly-opened tomb, as does the war room further down. No sign of Sam anywhere.

               And that there’s the rub. Other than Sam’s text and the door, there’s nothing to suggest that Sam hadn’t simply walked out of the bunker of his own volition while Dean had been out. No signs of a struggle were apparent: Dean had investigated thoroughly and had turned up with absolutely bupkis. No broken locks, no shifted furniture. Of course, it’s only _now,_ as he aims his Colt at the thumping door, that doubt starts to trickle through, and Dean begins to think maybe he’s walked his impulsive ass right into a fairly convincing trap –

              Dean absolutely does _not_ jump when the door thumps again, louder this time, a clear demand to be let out. To be free. Whipping his gun out and aiming it at the door with steady hands, Dean licks his dry lips. “Hey!” he barks out. “Who’s in there?”

              Silence, then . . . _Thump-thump-thump!_

              Movement at the floor catches Dean’s eye. Is that . . . is that _black goo_ seeping out from under the door?

              Dread, cold and insidious, crashes over him. “Sonuvabitch.”

              “ _Dean_!”

              Damn near jumping out of his skin, Dean pivots on the spot to aim his firearm at the squeaked-out voice but thankfully a solid trigger finger stops him from putting a bullet in the small, red-headed figure at the other end of the hallway.

             “Motherfuckin’ –” He can’t finish the curse, his pulse thundering too wildly in his throat to spit the words out. “Charlie! What’re you doin' here?!”

              She chuckles weakly, hands still raised in surrender. “Erm, surprise?”

             It takes a few seconds for Dean's thoughts to stop spinning, for him to remember why Charlie being here isn't right. He doesn't lower the gun. "No offense, but how do I know it's really y-?"

             "You flirted with a dude once to help me slip past Dick Roman's security," she fires off quickly, her smirk smug.

             “No, I _taught_ you how to flirt with - You know what, never mind." His paranoia satisfied, he lowers the gun as Charlie slowly drops her hands. "When did you get back from Oz?” he asks, still surprised to see her again so soon. “Is Dorothy here, too?”

               As Charlie edges closer to him (careful to skirt a fair distance around the thumping door, he notices) Dean studies her closely. In the months since he’s last seen her, she’s gotten a spiffy new haircut, her fiery hair cropped short to complement her elfin face. Dean likes the look, likes even better the corona of lively happiness that surrounds her, shining through her unease like the sunlight filtering through rainclouds. Oz, or perhaps a certain adventurous literary figure, must be doing wonders for Charlie.

              “No, no, it’s just me,” she says quickly, side-eying the door warily. “Dory’s busy all day helping the strawmen fight off an invasion of flying monkeys – which is not as fun as it sounds, trust me – so I decided to pop on over for a day. See what my favorite pair of monster hunters were up to.” She smiles brightly, but it doesn’t cover the nervous anxiety dancing in her eyes. “Sam said you weren’t here, so he enlisted the aid of me and my awesome organizational skills in helping dig through and catalog some unmarked boxes he’d found in storage. Basically a crap-ton of artifacts and papers from the Men of Letters era that you guys had overlooked. Can you believe what a bunch of pack rats those guys were? I mean, no offense to your gramps, but they were full on hoarders like _woah_!”

               “Charlie, Charlie!” Dean interrupts her softly but firmly, stepping forward and reaching out to engulf her tiny shoulder in his hand. “Take it easy there, kiddo.” He waits for her to take a deep breath before continuing. “Now I need you to tell me what’s going on. What happened? Where's Sam?”

               “I believe it’s my fault,” another familiar voice rumbles out. Dean’s stupid heart begins tripping over itself all over again (although for drastically different reasons this time) even before Dean’s best friend rounds the corner, the angel-turned-human’s full mouth turned down at the sides in its characteristic frown.

              “Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets him solemnly, his blue eyes flickering away from Dean’s face in, what, guilt?

              “Hey, Cas,” Dean answers, unable to keep the tiny smile off his face even as the knocking on the door suddenly grows louder, more insistent, definitely agitated this time. It’s been weeks since that rainy night he and Castiel last saw each other, the memory dulled with the gnarled mess of grief and self-loathing Dean had been ensnared in following Kevin’s death and Gadreel’s expulsion from Sam. Dean just barely checks himself from making sure his shirt sleeve covers his new Mark, courtesy of the Father of Murder himself. Call him crazy, but Dean doesn’t think Cas will be exactly ecstatic to see the crude-looking rune burned into Dean’s flesh. He’ll tell Cas soon, explain to him why he had to, just . . . not now. “I see you and Charlie have finally met,” he says instead.

              At this Charlie beams, knocking a fist playfully against Cas’s shoulder, to which the angel smiles proudly at Dean, as if to say, _Look, Dean, I’ve made a friend all by myself. Pretty sure this one won’t try to kill me._

              “Cas and I are besties now,” Charlie says, winking at Dean. “I’ve already loaned him my copy of _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_ and we have a Star Trek binge date planned. You’re invited too if you bring the snacks,” she adds primly.

               “Careful now, kiddo, you don’t want _Dory_ to get jealous, do you?” Dean teases with a quirked eyebrow, deflecting because it’s better than examining the completely irrational spark of jealousy he feels. He’s been meaning to get Cas started on the fundamentals of pop culture for ages now – too bad the bastard ran off to deal with another fallen angel crisis just before Dean wandered back to the bunker.

                Charlie huffs, but Dean would have to be blind to miss the secretly thrilled smile. “Don’t let her catch you calling her that,” she advises. “She’ll have your balls for –”

               She cuts off abruptly with a squeak of fright when the door rattles on its hinges, the knocking nearly violent in its frequency, as though impatiently reminding everyone of its ominous presence. _  
_

               “As much as I’m enjoying this human camaraderie,” Cas says, tone creeping towards fretful, his sharp gaze never straying from the door, “I’m afraid I need you to step away from that door, Dean. The wards I inscribed should hold and protect us, but it appears that you . . . excite him.”

               Dean reflexively backs another step away from the rattling door, only now noticing the glowing Enochian sigils carved along the length of the entire frame. “Him?”

               Castiel pauses, the nervousness dissipating in an icy flash as the fallen angel’s tone goes deadly. “I suppose it’s more accurate to say _them_.”

               The horrible suspicion Dean had started to formulate rears its head as he glances down at the floor in time to see more jet-black goo spilling out like an oil slick from out under the door, dark as void. “Cas, please tell me that's not what I think it is," Dean says quietly, his hand instinctively finding the grip of his Colt. 

               "It's not what you think it is," Castiel deadpans. "Or maybe it is. I wouldn't know - I can't read your mind anymore."

               Dean looks over his shoulder to retort but he's interrupted by another voice, this one smooth and lilting that Dean finds horribly familiar, although it shouldn’t be possible.

              “Hey, a-holes, I don’t mean to make a big fuss – except I do ‘cause it’s been two hours!! Where’s my room service? I ordered my kale and almond salad, like, _nearly_ an hour ago! If I don’t have enough B-12 I’m going to mess up my lines! Not cause of my B-12 deficiency, of course – just on purpose. It’ll be a hunger strike!”

              Dean meets Cas’s eyes – catching his gaze for no longer than a second, but enough time to see the fallen angel roll his eyes and huff in annoyance – before his gaze skips to the next member of their growing group as he comes capering around the corner.

              Dean swears his jaw drops and damn-near lands on his boots as a new figure saunters into the now-crowded hallway, identical to the sour-faced angel beside him in every way, except for where Cas is dressed in an open-collared button down and dark jeans borrowed from Dean’s closet, the newcomer is wearing an eye-offending, fuzzy, snowflake-splattered sweater-jacket thing, the color the exact same shade of blue as his mischievous eyes.

              Now Dean Winchester prides himself on his endless arsenal of snappy one-liners and ability to stay cool no matter the situation, but the shock of seeing a man identical to Castiel in every physical detail, down to the last sooty black eyelash – a man whom he has met before, because how could he ever forget that eyesore of a sweater? – has limited his quips to an underwhelming, “YOU!”

              “Me!” Fake-Cas agrees jovially, suddenly much more chipper once he has spotted Dean. He elbows a disgruntled Cas out of his way, long-fingered hand reaching into his pocket to pull out a smartphone, chipped along the edges and probably costs more than Dean's five-year-old laptop. “Man, am I glad to see you, Jen. Can you do me a favor? These guys won’t let me outside and cell reception sucks ass down there. I’m dying for a Twitter break so I can keep my legions of faithful minions updated on my kidnapping escapade.” He wiggles the phone in Dean’s face. “They need to know their Overlord is alive and well. I’m sure they’ll be able to wrangle up a ransom, but I can’t guarantee it won’t be made up of Monopoly money. Possibly glued together in a mosaic of Bill Shatner.”

               “Yyyyeaaaahh, I don’t know what any of that was, but I can tell you my name sure as hell isn't _Jensen_ ,” Dean growls out, perhaps a tad more aggressive than the situation calls for, but who can blame him? He wants no association with this assclown actor who lives in some bizarro world and works on a shitty television show about his and Sam’s miserable lives.

                Lowering his cellphone, Mirror-Cas meets Dean’s eyes, shifts his expression to something more solemn, and suddenly the resemblance between him and Castiel is immediate and more than a little disconcerting. Dean’s hand twitches, and he nearly reaches for his gun again, before he realizes that Charlie and Cas, while wearing expressions of amusement and irritation respectively, haven’t reacted defensively to the doppelganger’s presence. So not a Leviathan or a shape-shifter or a ghoul then, nothing overtly dangerous, but this guy can’t possibly be the same one Dean met before, right? That guy had  _died_.

                The staring contest breaks as the impostor blinks once and shatters the illusion, becoming once again some weird dude with an obsession for social media and happens to share an uncanny resemblance to an angel. He smiles slowly at Dean, a wide, toothy grin showing a fair amount of gum and crinkling the corners of the impostor’s eyes. A smile completely alien to the face that Dean has known for years. “Oh, I know you’re not Jensen. No more than I’m Castiel.” A sly look creeps onto the impostor’s face, the one naughty little kids have when they purposely write on the walls with markers or throw Mommy’s expensive watch down the toilet just in time to get caught. “I just wanted to see how you’d react, _Dean_.” He rumbles out his name in a whiskey-rugged voice, pitch-perfect to Castiel’s.

                It freaks Dean out more than he’s willing to admit.

                “Misha Collins,” the impostor says in his regular voice. “Actor, baker, candlestick-maker. At your service.” He dips down in a ridiculous curtsy, raising his hands out like he’s holding up imaginary dress skirts.

                Behind them, Charlie lets slip a snicker, slapping a hand over her mouth when Dean glares at her. _Don’t encourage him_! he mouths furiously at her.

                “Would someone like to finally clue me in onto what the hell’s going on here?” Dean nearly shouts. 

               “Beats me,” Misha offers brightly, unfazed by the scowl Dean sends his way. “I’m still vacillating between lucid dream, bad acid-trip – which is weird, 'cause I haven’t done anything since ‘09 - or I was wrong and all this really is an elaborate prank of Jared’s. Congrats on finding my long-lost twin, Jared!” he shouts to seemingly no one, hitching his thumb over his shoulder at a sulking Castiel.

                In response, Cas gives the back of Misha's head the stink eye before answering Dean. “As I said before, it’s my fault, Dean. I . . . incorrectly handled one of the Men of Letters artifacts.”

                 “Oh, stop saying that, Cas,” Charlie soothes, running a hand up and down his arm. “We’ve been handling stuff together all afternoon without a hitch. How were you supposed to know?”

                “I should have sensed _something_ ,” Castiel insists doggedly, lower lip pouting slightly.

                Dean feels a pang of sympathy for his best friend, knowing that one of the hardest changes Cas has had to get used to while being human was the inability to protect the Winchesters like he once was able to. “Hey, it’s fine, buddy. So long as no one got hurt, right?” he adds hesitantly, because he has yet to see any sign of Sam.

                  “Sam’s fine, we all escaped injury,” Castiel agrees, recognizing Dean’s unspoken request for information on Sam’s well-being. The knot of anxiety in Dean’s gut loosens just the tiniest bit at Cas’s assurance.

                  “So how did Tom Cruise here sneak into the bunker? I mean, last time I saw him, he was –” Dean stops abruptly, unwilling to finish the sentence. Bloody images sink into his head of a Castiel doppelganger lying on the cold cement of a stinking Vancouver alleyway, body covered by a long white plastic tarp, his throat slashed open in a scarlet grimace.

                   Feeling like his stomach is trying to crawl out through his throat, Dean pulls himself away from the memory before it can drag him down, ignoring the quizzical look Misha is sending his way as he hastily tries to mask his slip-up. “Is this another dimension-flipping spell like the one Balthazar used on Sam and me?”

                  “No,” Castiel answers with firm certainty. “It’s worse. Much worse.”

                  It’s during the proceeding silence in which Dean uses to process this information that Charlie finally pipes up. “Hey, guys, not to be a complete cliché, but is it too, er, quiet in here?”

                  She’s right. Four heads turn in unison to stare at the suddenly motionless door. Even Misha seems a little apprehensive, taking a tentative step back, his earlier bravado rapidly waning.

                  It’s then that Dean hears it: A soft, hissing whisper, like steam escaping through a valve, winding through the air and slithering over his skin.

                 “ _Dean_ ,” it whispers, voice soft and oily, and yet somehow a near-facsimile to the voices of the two black-haired men next to him. “ _Dean, come play with us. We’ll have so much fun together, sweetling_.”

                  “Holy shit!” Dean curses violently, whipping his Colt back out to aim at the door. Protective instincts kicking in, he throws his other arm out to push Misha and Charlie behind him and away from the black-goo-drooling monster locked behind the door. Cas ducks his arm to stand by Dean’s side, shoulder to shoulder, his own arm poised to shove Dean out of harm’s way if need be.

                  Sweat is starting to break out along Dean’s forehead in reaction to the icy fear now skittering up his spine. Years-old memories resurface like a nightmare that won’t quit: Castiel’s pained cries as he crumpled forward, bloody hands clutching his stomach. Then – _Cas isn’t here anymore! He’s, hm, gone!_ Neon blue eyes framed in splatters of crimson blood and black lines branching like lightning bolts up his face and a mad, empty smile. _We run the show now!_

                 "Leviathan,” Dean chokes out.

                 What the hell kind of Men of Letters artifact was able to resurrect this monstrosity?

                 “ _Yes_ ,” the voice answers in a delighted croon, sweet like poisonous honey. “ _Did you miss us, Dean? We sure missed you. But guess what? We’re baaaaack!_ ”

                  Dean feels a hand on his shoulder, its solid grip like an anchor. He instinctively leans into the touch, his fear receding back into something containable. “Come with us, Dean,” Castiel insists. “These two aren’t the only ones.”

                “Yeah, let’s get outta here,” Charlie agrees, his brave friend obviously trying not to let it show how freaked out she is. Then again, it’s not like she hasn’t met these toothy freaks before. “Leave Thing 1 here to drool on the floor some more. Sam’s been keeping the others entertained and I bet he could use some back up by now.”

                 After a few tense moments - wherein Dean quickly calculates where the borax resides in the bunker before realizing in dismay that they never restocked – Dean slowly pockets his gun and backs away from the door, nodding at Castiel. “Lead the way, then.”

                 Together, the three make their way down the corridor and away from the caged monster, Misha trailing behind them.

                “Onward to the Room of Roguishly Handsome Devils!” he cheers, rubbing his hands in glee.

 

 

 

                 The closer they get to the garage – “It was the only room big enough to hold them all,” Charlie had explained – the louder the babble of overlapping voices becomes. It doesn’t sound exactly like a crowd per se, because a crowd would imply a mixed group. Dean’s unease only continues to grow as the ruckus grows louder. The commotion echoes through the bunker, and yeah, definitely sounds like several of the voices are arguing. With a sweeping wave of relief, Dean recognizes Sammy’s belligerent tones, the voice he only uses when he’s a second away from blowing a gasket (usually because of Dean) and yelling “To hell with you!” before stomping off in a big dramatic huff.

                 “Once again, I’m sorry, Mr. Novak, but you can’t leave, it’s not safe – Hey, for the hundredth time, put that out! You can’t smoke in an underground bunker . . . Why? Because there’s no windows, you moron! You . . . Where did you even get pot?! . . . No, Cas, put your – No, not _you_ -Cas, _him_ -Cas - put your clothes back on, please . . . Because I said so!”

                  _Yikes_.

                Just as they reach the outside of the garage, Misha slips past them, winking. “See you in there, Not-Jensen.”

                 Dean just rolls his eyes as the flamboyant actor sashays away, nose already buried back in his phone. Charlie catches his eye, giving him an encouraging thumbs-up, while Cas’s lips twitch in an apologetic grimace.

                 Dean sighs. “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, stepping out of the corridor and into the cavernous expanse of the bunker garage. It can’t be that bad, right?

                 Turns out it really can.

                 "Aw, shit."

                 Not counting his gigantic brother, who’s currently running his moose paws through his ridiculous mane of hair in frustration, there are six other men in the room, their black hair in various states of tidiness, some neatly combed over, but most sporting some serious sex-hair. One is arguing with Sam, making furious hand gestures and getting right up in his brother’s face, despite being several inches shorter; the others are milling around the antique cars, one pair talking easily to each other, but most keeping to themselves, their blue eyes darting about furtively and eyeing the others with mistrust, but locking on Dean the moment he steps forward.

                Castiel. They’re all copies of Castiel. Er, no, hold up, Dean quickly amends himself – the belligerent one scowling at Sam is definitely Jimmy Novak. Dean recognizes him by the ill-fitting suit Castiel wore every day for five years, sans trenchcoat. Watching him make furious gestures and get steadily redder in the face, Castiel’s vessel looks to still be the same feisty spitfire that Dean remembers him to be.

                Haloed in a cloud of blue-tinged smoke, Dean easily picks out the gaunt, scruffier Cas as the stoner-hippy human he’d met in that hellish alternate 2014 Zachariah had sent him to. Dean can feel his stomach turn over as those eyes meet his; although slightly bloodshot from the smoke, they’re also crinkled in suppressed mirth, like he knows something Dean doesn’t. Yet those blue eyes still reflect back the same hollowness Dean remembers, and he can’t help but recoil slightly. Watching Dean steadily, Castiel lifts his dangling cigarette from his chapped lips to blow a ring of smoke at him, winking.

                Standing twenty feet to his right is a Castiel in a trenchcoat, and it takes Dean a second for recognition to set in, but several clues give it away: the way this Cas’s gaze rarely lifts to eye level, how he fiddles with the belt of his coat and hunches his shoulders to make himself appear smaller, less noticeable; and how Jimmy’s suit has been replaced with a starch-white hospital uniform. Dean doesn’t really want to assign this timid creature the moniker “Crazy Cas,” but he’s hard-pressed to come up with a more suitable nickname for him, even if it’s only how Dean will refer to him in the privacy of his own head. For Christ’s sake, Cas buck-naked on his stolen car, covered in more bees than Nicholas Cage, is still seared into his brain forevermore.

                Down by the cherry-red vintage Corvette Dean spots Misha, sticking out like a sore thumb in his fuzzy snowflake sweater-jacket, chatting easily at another doppelganger, though the conversation appears very much one-sided. This one sports a navy cardigan that looks like it came off a Sears clearance rack, paired with what Dean thinks normal people call “sensible slacks” and loafers. He fidgets uncomfortably where Misha leans casually beside him, clearly unsure how to deal with the actor’s exuberant attitude, but too polite to say otherwise. _Emmanuel_ , Dean thinks, unsure of what his feelings are on this clone, ‘cause it _is_ Cas, albeit one that had briefly led a nice life away from the shitstorm that is the Winchesters. An amnesiac angel masquerading as a human, performing healings and miracles in the service of God, must have been a little slice of heaven before Dean had dragged him back in. Dean had only known this Not-Cas for a single day, but his mouth still sours at the memory of his previously dead friend staring at him without an ounce of recognition, stepping away from Dean into the arms of a woman. Of a wife.

              _Four, five . . . didn’t I count a six?_ Dean thinks, and he scans the room again, thinks maybe he miscounted, when without warning he feels more than hears the _floosh!_ of a great big pair of wings behind him, the breeze ruffling his hair.

             “Hello, Dean.”

              Heart banging around in his chest before he even gets his first look (just like it _knowsknowsknows_ ), Dean whips around and barely stifles a curse when he finds himself nearly nose-to-nose with the last Cas doppelganger. Too-large beige trenchcoat, backwards blue tie, thousand-yard stare, windswept hair, and scruffy face implacable as stone: it’s as if no time has passed between now and that night in the abandoned barn in Pontiac, Illinois, all those years ago.

              Even though Dean knows the real Cas is standing not one foot to his right, human and relatively safe, something deep inside of him rejoices at seeing the angel as Dean had come to know him these last five years. He has the childish desire to reach out and brush his fingers down the fabric of the trenchcoat – the same one he ferried between stolen cars while he and Sam stayed under Leviathan radar and slept with under his pillow when Sam wasn’t looking, the same one Cas had left ruined and abandoned in some Colorado laundromat – just because he finds he can't remember the last time he touched it, no matter how hard he tries.

              “Heya, Cas,” Dean greets cautiously, half-expecting to see the inky shadows of giant wings unfurl and ripple out over the bunker walls.

               Movement in the corner of his eye has Dean sliding his gaze to the right just in time to catch Cas’s pained expression before he carefully schools it into something more neutral. Yet even when a blank slate, Dean is struck by how human his Cas’s expression still seems, a warmer, humbler contrast to the chiseled-from-ice, alien mask the angel in front of him wears. It’s a difference Dean likes to think can be attributed to hanging out with the Winchesters and seeing humanity through their eyes as much as actually falling and working alone at a Gas-n-Sip has. Even though his friend’s humanity is still relatively a new thing, the angel standing before Dean looks as far from human as you can get while still wearing the body of one. Standing this close, his skin prickles from the static force Dean remembers from the early days of their acquaintance, when they were more enemies than friends. The days where Dean would antagonize Castiel at every turn just for the hell of it, and Castiel would in turn threaten to toss his sorry ass back into the bowels of Hell and throw away the key. Yeah, the good ole days, before Dean realized what that little flutter of his pulse meant every time Castiel stood just a little too close, when he could just write it off as nerves from facing a supernatural creature he’d actively worked not to kill.

              Now Dean can’t even be in the same room with Cas without feeling like there’s a balloon expanding underneath his ribcage, a pressure that turns from mildly pleasant to a distracting ache every time Cas is gone.

             “Tell the demon abomination –” At that Castiel’s gaze flicks imperiously to Sam, ten feet away and now alternating between glaring at Novak and the angel “– that we don’t have time for this nonsense. We must stop Lilith from breaking the Seals and rising Lucifer.”

             “Oh, boy,” Dean mutters. “Cas, um . . . You’re kinda behind the times, buddy. We, well – long story short, we stopped the Apocalypse. Eventually. And the one after that, too,” he amends after a pause.

             Castiel frowns, inspecting him as though Dean is the puny, flammable ant to Cas’s giant, sun-streaming magnifying glass. “That is incorrect. This is merely a temporal anomaly, a crossing of time streams. The Apocalypse is ever-looming, no matter how many times you delay it. And as the Righteous Man, it’s your duty to –”

               “Yeah, yeah,” Dean interrupts flippantly. “Become the Michael Sword, let the Arch-douche use me as an angel condom, yada-yada-yada, heard it all before and got the t-shirt. But I’ve got a newflash for you, feathers: Didn’t happen, will never happen, and now you’re the sorry bastard who’s out of a job. Now sit down with the rest of the twins – er, well, I guess sextuplets – while I figure out how to sort this shit out.”

              Those icy blue eyes flash, darkening like storm clouds into Cas’s smitey glare, and Dean is sure Castiel is about to grab Dean by the scruff of his neck and beam him all the way back to 2008. Just as Dean takes a hesitant step back, human Cas steps forward to intervene, shouldering Dean to the side to get right into his doppelganger’s space and meet the angel stare for stare.

              “You overstep your orders, solider,” he barks out, and Dean can’t help but be a smidge impressed at Cas’s boldness. Angel Castiel’s head snaps back, as though his Fallen counterpart’s very existence offends him, but a bolt of lightning doesn’t materialize to strike Cas down, so Dean counts that as an encouraging sign. “You’re to obey the Righteous Man,” Cas continues. “He gave you an order - join the others and await further instructions.” After a brief moment of hesitation, Cas adds delicately, eyes wide and imploring, “Please.”

            Tilting his head to one side, the angel squints at his human doppelganger, and for several tense seconds it seems like Dean is going to have to watch Cas get smote to kingdom come, but then the angel says to Dean, “Don’t make me regret this,” and the trio are left staring at empty space as Angel Castiel zaps to the far side of the bunker, away from the company of the other clones. Dean releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

               Charlie is the first to break the silence, exhaling in a gusty sigh. “Hoo-boy.” She looks up at Cas. “You’re sure were rockin’ the whole Badass Warrior of God image back then. I thought we were all about to be turned to salt.”

               Cas grins sheepishly, stealing a furtive glance at Dean. “You could say that my people skills were rusty.”

               Dean snorts at the reference. “So that all of them, then?”

              “Dude, I wish.” Charlie grimaces. “We had to lock up Thing 1 and Thing 2 before they could escape and enact their evil plans of world domination.”

               Castiel nods. “She’s right. We were fortunate that the Men of Letters warded the bunker so thoroughly; it dampened their power, allowing Sam and me to overpower them and trap them separately, one in the empty bedroom, as you saw, and the other in the dungeon where Crowley used to be.”

             “Well, I’ve already guessed Thumper back there was your creeptastic Leviathan self,” Dean surmises, “but who’s on second?”

             Cas’s face darkens, his lips twisting into a bitter half-smile. “Surely you, Dean, all of people, wouldn’t forget the time I swallowed the souls of Purgatory and aspired to Godhood?” Castiel replies ruefully.

             “Shit,” Dean hisses, rubbing a hand at his temple where a headache is beginning to form. “What kind of dusty artifact has the power to do something like this – whatever this is! How did they get here, Cas? Is it really some freaky time-travel thing or –?”

              “Sort of, but I’m starting to think it’s way more complicated than that,” a new voice replies, and a bedraggled Sam shoulders his way to their group, waving away a still-shouting Jimmy Novak. “Mr. Novak, if you could kindly shut your damn mouth for a moment, please! No one else wants to be here, it’s not just you.” Ignoring the fierce glowering this earns him (Dean's surprised Sam hasn’t been skewered by Novak’s laser eyes yet), Sam digs into his pocket and fishes out a jade talisman, a polished oval hanging from a thick black chord with gold lettering inscribed along the edges. The stone is chipped in multiple places. “This is our culprit,” he says, and Dean notices how Sam carefully keeps his fingers only on the chord. “Luckily, whoever stored it here left some of their notes behind. Most of the writing was smudged, so I have no clue what it’s called or what religion it’s associated with, if any, but what I can tell you is that it’s supposed to be used for meditation. The theory was that wearing it allowed the user to connect with their multiple selves and bring them together to create a more harmonious self. Kinda like getting in touch with your inner child.”

               Dean quirks a skeptical brow at the innocuous-looking, rather dinky piece of jewelry. Really, it looks like something that wouldn’t be out of place at a roadside flea market. “And those notes didn’t say ‘Absolutely under no circumstance should you actually lay a finger on the damn thing’?” he asks in disbelief, looking up at his brother.

                For the first time, Sam and Dean’s gazes connect, and Dean can easily see past Sam’s tightly controlled expression to the anger and hurt still brimming underneath the flimsy veneer. Clenching his jaw, Dean coolly nods his understanding. Things between them are far from fixed, but for now, Sam is saying he’s willing to put it aside until this mess is fixed.

                Acting like nothing has passed between the brothers, Sam just shrugs and answers Dean's question. “It didn’t, actually. Guess we’ll just have to chalk it up to negligence on their part. Anyway, the second Cas touched it there was this huge flash of light –”

                “Ain’t there always?” Dean quips.

                “- and suddenly we had eight extra Castiels on our hands.”

                “Six extra Castiels, plus a Jimmy and a Misha,” Charlie reminds him. “And Emmanuel, although I guess he’s still technically Cas, just _The Bourne Identity_ edition.” Dean catches her eyes. "Oh, Sam, caught me up, don't worry. The _Supernatural_ fandom would have gone _wild_ if Carver Edlund had published these."

                 “Right . . .” Sam says.

                 “Great. Well, I’m going to take this as the sign I’ve been waiting for to start our own baseball team,” Dean jokes flippantly. “We’d probably be better than the actual Angels anyway.”

                 “Yeah, I don’t doubt it,” Sam agrees with a smirk, but it’s only a brief moment of levity before his face clouds over. “Lemme tell ya, Dean, I really think we dodged a bullet with this. Imagine if I’d touched it.” Sam chuckles in a self-deprecating way. “Personally, I’d take Godstiel and Levi-Cas over soulless-me any day of the week.”

                  Given how he’d watched Godstiel pop an Archangel like an overripe tomato, Dean isn’t exactly inclined to agree, but he nods anyway. “So what now? Is there a spell to send them back?” he asks, but he already knows the answer by the way Sam’s brows pinch down the middle. “Well, shit . . . guess we’re going to open that charming B&B after all. . . .”

                   “I was waiting for you to get back so I could finally start digging into the lore for a cure or reversal spell. There’s bound to be something in the library or online,” Sam ponders, more to himself than Dean, his sharp-as-tacks mind already planning how best to attack this new and unsettling problem they’ve landed in. “Charlie, I don’t know how long this will take," Sam says to her, forehead pinched up apologetically. "If you need to head back to Oz, we’ll understand.”

                   “And pass up my chance to pull a total Hermione and find the counter-curse in some dusty old tome just in time to save all your asses? No way!” She pulls out her cell phone. “I’ll send Dory a text and let her know.”

                  “You’ve got inter-dimensional coverage now?” Sam asks, impressed and, Dean knows, a touch envious.

                  “I know a guy,” is the crytic answer Charlie gives, smirking coyly.

                 “Hey, where does that leave me?” Dean interjects quickly, not liking one bit where he thinks this is headed.

                  Castiel answers, “I was hoping you could help me manage my . . . the doppelgangers. If they are anything like me, they’ll respond best to you.”

                  The tips of Dean’s ears feel like they’ve been set on fire from his scorching blush. Even human, Cas’s filter is nearly non-existent.

                  Behind Castiel, where only Dean can see, Sam wiggles his eyebrows while Charlie makes kissy faces. Apparently, all of Dean’s friends are either dead or complete assholes.

                  “Yeah, Dean,” Sam says, smirking like he’s so goddamn sly. “You should definitely make them feel welcome. If we don’t have enough rooms, I bet a few wouldn’t mind camping out in yours.”

                   Wanting very much to strangle his dick-of-a-brother, Dean scowls indignantly and flips him the bird, but Castiel just frowns in that squinty way of his. “I don’t think it would be a wise decision to keep too many in the same room together. There’s a chance the confined space could make them quite quarrelsome.”

                  “You know we can all hear you!” Misha suddenly call out from the back of the room. “You’re hurting our feelings.”

                   “Then don’t listen!” Dean yells back, but when he looks back Sam and Charlie are already hightailing it for the library, calling over their shoulders, “You’ll be fine!” and leaving Dean alone with Cas and six of his doppelgangers.

                     Hands on his hips, Dean exhales on a blustery sigh, silently cursing his lot in life for ending up with a meddling little brother, who is probably already planning what he thinks will be Dean’s imminent polygamous marriage to nine Castiels. He slides a glance at the real Cas. “Ready?”

                    Grimacing, Castiel replies in his deadpan tone, “Not in the least.”


	2. Orphan Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quirking a supercilious brow, Angel Cas answers archly in his fuckin’ superior, holy-stick-up-his-ass tone, “Only to lead angelic forces in the fight to stop Lucifer’s ascension,” right as Future Cas drolly replies, “I’m running late for my hair appointment.”
> 
> Dean shoots a dirty look at the pair. Fucking Sass-tiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, let me know if something looks wonky, I don't have time at the moment to go back look over what I posted. thankfully, I still had my ms word copy of nine of a kind to copy and paste from, but I know more than a few lines were changed in the ao3 copy and not the ms word copy. So if anything just stops mid-sentence, or something, let me know and I will fix it!
> 
> Warnings: Brief mention of one-sided Megstiel, implying only that it's unrequited, and attraction only on Meg's side. (Which is pretty generous coming from me)

            Together, the hunter and the fallen angel turn slowly on their heels to face the clones, Dean with an exaggerated grin plastered on his face, and Cas - well, he might be trying to mimic Dean, it’s hard to tell. The toothy grimace kind of makes the angel look like he’s some creep trying to hand out candy to kids from his windowless van.

            “Sooo, if I could just have your attention, please,” Dean projects his voice to the room, drawling the word out with honeyed charm.  It’s what Dean likes to call his Special Agent voice, effective on rattled victims of the supernatural and foxy bar patrons alike. All at once, six pairs of ocean-blue eyes swivel to land and fasten onto him with unwavering attention, and Dean finds his smile slipping at the force of that familiar laser focus, now magnified several times over; it’s electric and terrifying, raising the hair on the back of his arms and neck, and suddenly, the spacious garage is beginning to feel a bit cramped.  “Er, right . . . How about everyone just –”

            “Don’t start with that bull, Winchester,” Jimmy Novak spits. Immediately, Dean is nearly nose to nose with a pair of angry blue eyes framed with thick dark lashes. His frame, thinner than Castiel’s, vibrates with pent-up anger and frustration. “Your brother has kept me here for over two hours already. I want nothing to do with this hunter crap. Just let me go home to my family.”

            “Jimmy, we’ve been over this before.” Fuck, Dean already knows where this conversation is headed, knows he's the one in the right – yet he’s going to end up feeling like a colossal dick anyway. “It’s too dangerous for you to contact them - we’ve got more demons running loose than ever before, and fallen angels looking for vessels, you can’t just waltz on out of here –”

             In a surprisingly bold move, Jimmy pokes a bony finger in Dean’s chest. “Look, pal, I didn’t ask to be brought back. I didn’t sign my body away to an angel – _twice! –_ only to be blown up months later and then dragged back here to life, but apparently, God _really_ must hate me!”

            “Jimmy, please,” Castiel interjects beseechingly. “Claire and her mother are safe, I would know if –” 

            “ _You_ –” Jimmy jabs that same accusing finger at Cas, what might very well be hate simmering in his eyes as he glares balefully at his body-snatcher. “You, Castiel, don’t say another word. I’ve finally found freedom from you, and you no longer have a say in my life. Now back - _off_.”

            Uncomfortable silence descends in the garage as the angel and his vessel stare at each other. Eyes wide and face stricken, Castiel doesn’t say a word in his defense. Instead, his expression slowly smoothes, wiped clean like a slate. Clenching his jaw once, eyes hooded, Cas shifts as if to move away, but Dean pulls him back by the front of his shirt before he beat a hasty retreat.

             “Listen here, asshole,” Dean snaps at Jimmy, fighting to not raise his voice, even with his hackles raised in his friend’s defense. “Cas got himself blown to kingdom come taking a stand for us humans. Without his help, the planet would have been charred to a crisp, along with your wife and kid, so you can lay off.”

            Jimmy’s nostrils flare and his fists clench, and for a second Dean is sure the former radio ad time salesman is about to clock him square in the jaw. Luckily for Dean, Jimmy's Christian sensibilities have him turning down attempted murder in favor of continuing to verbally abuse Dean, but Dean cuts him off with a raised hand.

            “Now here’s how it’s going to be, Jimmy-boy. Either you can continue to pitch a fit and bitch at Cas some more, in which case you’re more than welcome to spend a night with Thing 1 or Thing 2.” It’s an unfair bluff, but Jimmy’s already pale face loses what little color it has until it looks like bleached bone. Apparently, he’d seen enough of Godstiel and Levia-Cas before Sam and Cas had locked them up to see just what horrors his meat suit had been subjected to in his absence.

            To make up for the guilt playing that card had caused him, Dean makes a decision on the fly, glad Sam and his disapproving bitchface aren't here to witness his stupidity. “But if you shut your trap and listen, perhaps I can offer you up an alternative, huh? How about this: Play nice and help us piece together how you got here – what’s the last thing you remember and whatnot – and help us maybe work out this spell and send the rest back . . . and in return I’ll help you track down Amelia and Claire.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees the look Castiel shoots at him, but as he can’t decode it, he ignores him. “Capisce?”

            Jimmy blinks twice, clearly blindsided by the offer, but then his eyes narrow in shrewd suspicion, an expression eerily similar to Castiel’s.

            “Why should I trust you, Winchester?” he demands bluntly. “You just said you wouldn’t, and last time you sided with your brother. What’s changed?”

            Rubbing at his forehead, Dean sighs wearily, feeling the weight of the last decade heavy on his shoulders. “I don’t really know, man . . . I guess,” he replies with as much honesty as he can muster, “because I think you deserve this small thing after everything you sacrificed. That you deserve some shred of peace.”

            _Because I want to do the right thing for once._

            When Novak continues to stare at him dubiously, he adds, “Look. I’m not saying you can stay permanently, it’s still too dangerous for Amelia and Claire. Maybe just long enough to give them and yourself some closure. Say goodbye.” Sam’s going to flip a table when he hears about this, but screw him, he’s never had a kid. In his heart of hearts, Dean can’t say he’d jump at the chance to see Lisa and Ben again – it would hurt too damn much – but Jimmy has the chance to do it right this time, so that the last memory Amelia has of her husband and Claire has of her father isn’t one of a stranger wearing his body, walking away without a backwards glance.

            Running a hand through his already-disheveled hair, Jimmy sighs like he can feel Dean’s burden, shares it. “I . . . I don’t really know if I can be of any help,” he admits hesitantly, as though afraid to admit his ineptitude will have Dean going back on his word. “Aren't spells and magical junk more of your guys’ expertise?”

            “Just tell us the last thing you remember before you wound up at the Casa de Winchester,” Dean prompts gently.

            Eyes half-lidded, Jimmy’s gaze lists to the side. All the earlier ire has long since seeped out of him, leaving only a man adrift in the world, alone. “I remember lying in that warehouse, dying, bleeding out on the floor.” The words come out toneless, as though Jimmy is describing something seen through a bystander’s eyes, recalling someone else’s tragedy. “H- _He_ was in her, in Claire. I must have said ‘yes’ again, although that part’s fuzzy, 'cause everything after that is that searing light and being strapped right back onto that damn comet.” Novak’s face becomes troubled, his brow furrowed. “After that it’s nothing but darkness, ‘cause Casti – _he_ kept me buried pretty deep, so I wouldn’t have to dwell on my family. So I would just sleep . . .” He huffs bitterly, turning his faraway gaze back to Dean. “And I guess that’s it, then, 'cause now I’m here, trapped in this nightmare.” Jimmy stares at the other clones milling around in the garage, keeping their distance, and shudders in revulsion. “Maybe this is Hell, and God is punishing me for my sinful ambition.”

            To Dean’s surprise, Cas steps forward, despite the visible flinch his presence elicits. His hand makes an odd motion, as though an aborted attempt to lay a comforting hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “Jimmy, you wouldn’t remember as a returning soul, but shortly after I retook control of your body, I was killed by the Archangel Raphael. You were detached from my grace, and your soul rose to Heaven. I felt your absence upon my resurrection, and as a true vessel, your soul’s fate was destined always to be Paradise, no matter what your perceived sins may be.”

            Jimmy chuckles once without humor, still refusing to meet Castiel’s gaze. “Yet here I am.”

            Castiel can’t seem to think of any response to that, and neither can Dean. So he slaps Jimmy once on the shoulder, trying to convey comfort to the almost-stranger with the familiar face. “Thanks anyway, Jimbo. How about you go find Sam and get the spare laptop from him? See if you can dig up anything on Amelia and Claire? You can tell Sam I said it was okay if he asks. We’ll leave in the morning after I get everyone situated.”

            He sticks his other hand out, breaching that pocket of air between them that was no-man's land.

            Jimmy holds Dean's gaze a moment longer before his eyes flicker down to stare at Dean's offered hand, expression inscrutable. Just when Dean thinks he's about to be snubbed Jimmy accepts it, muttering a quiet “Thank you” as he shakes Dean’s hand. He pulls away first, hesitates, and then nods stiffly at Cas, unsmiling, before taking his leave from the bunker garage, dress shoes clacking away on the floor with a waning echo.

            No sooner has Novak disappeared down the hall than Dean is swarmed by the remaining Castiels – Angel Cas, Misha, Crazy Cas, Emmanuel, and Future Cas – each biding for his attention.

            “So what’s next on the agenda, oh fearless leader?”

            “Dean, I can’t find Meg. Is she hiding from me? Is this the part where I ‘seek’ her?”

            “Pardon me, sorry, I know that we aren’t acquainted with each other, but could you possibly help me find my wife, too?”

            “Hey, Not-Jensen, do you guys get Wi-Fi down in this dump?”

            “Lilith is on the move, Dean, we must act quickly to –”

            “Dean, I need you to help me –”

            “Dean, where can I –?”

            “Dean, please –”

            “Dean –?”

            _“Dean –!”_

“ _ENOUGH!”_ One of the voices thunders over all others, rising above the din, but it’s not one of the doppelgängers, it’s the real Castiel, and despite having recently lost all his mojo and his wings, Cas looks ready to bring down divine wrath on the next being foolish to so much as look at him funny. Immediately, the clamor dies down, the clones staring at Castiel with apprehension. Poor Emmanuel looks about ready to piss himself. Dean removes his hands from where he’d clamped them over his ears, glancing warily at Cas, who’s guilt-inspired meekness has been swapped for indomitable authority and protective rage.

            It’s only takes another look at the group of Castiels for Dean to jump forward with his hand outstretched. “No, don’t -!”

            Too late. “No conflict, please,” Crazy Cas whispers, wide-eyed, and then he's fluttering away like a spooked bird, disappearing on the spot.

            “Shit! Cas, he’s flown the coop!” Dean’s already whipping around to make a beeline for the exit, with no friggin’ clue how he’s going to track down the traumatized angel - who could be in Timbuktu by now - but Cas’s hand on his shoulder stops him, reeling him back.

            “Dean, wait - there's no need. I’ve already warded the bunker against angel teleportation, and none of us can cross the boundary of the doors. You can search him out later, but first you must help me here.”

            It’s counterintuitive not to chase after Cas, even if it’s not _his_ Cas, but Dean grits his teeth and resists the urge. “Ugh, fine, but you’re going to help me find him . . . you . . .  you-that’s-not-you . . . fuck, _whatever . . ._  You’re going to find him later and apologize,” Dean says firmly, daring Cas to object or call him out on his improper use of pronouns.

            Cas just rolls his eyes, unamused, before directing his ire on the remaining four clones.

            “If you wish to speak to Dean,” he growls out in his gravel-rough voice, “you will do so _respectfully_. You are only allowed to remain here because Dean says so.” Dean opens his mouth to protest the veracity of that statement, but the glare Castiel shoots his way has him shutting his piehole. “Dean, choose one of my doppelgangers and then he can address his concerns to you. We will do this in an orderly fashion, or not at all.” And then he steps off to the side, squinting menacingly at the clones.

            Dean sighs, rubs at his brow. “Yeah, thanks for that, Cas,” he mutters under his breath. Stick Cas in a sweater-vest and a minivan packed to the roof with screaming brats, and he’ll be ready to turn this car around, so help him God.

            Emmanuel, Misha, and the remaining two Castiel-clones huddle around him, tight-lipped and staring, waiting expectantly. Needless to say, it's more than a little unnerving. “Okay, uh, how about . . .” Shit, who to choose without pissing the others off? “. . . Manny?”

            Angel Castiel scowls, but otherwise he’s the only one who lets his impatience show. Emmanuel just blinks blankly at Dean. “I’m sorry, but was that a diminutive of my full name? Only I wasn’t –”

            “Yes, that means _you_ , Emmanuel,” Dean says shortly, his patience frayed. He’d almost forgotten how amnesia had given Cas an extra shot of literalness to the point of an almost child-like naivety. Except where Castiel has always had a rather brusque personality (although he’s eased up some over the years), the man in front of Dean had been soft and warm like a well-worn sweater, charmed with good manners, patient and soft-spoken.

            “I . . . I was hoping you would be able to help me get in touch with my wife Daphne, if it’s not too much trouble.” It’s been well over two years, but Dean can still clearly remember the pretty redhead with doe-like eyes the same shade of green as his. He especially recalls, in vivid detail, the punch to the gut he’d felt as she placed a proprietary hand on Cas’s – Emmanuel’s – shoulder, the simple gold ring on her third finger. “Only she’ll be terribly worried if I’m not home in time for dinner and I don’t want to her to worry.”

            Dean can’t help but wonder bitterly if it was Daphne’s guiding hand that had softened the pointed edges of his Cas. . . .

            There’s a small kick to the back of Dean’s heel. “Say something, Dean,” Cas mutters in his ear. Dean blinks out of his peevish thoughts, realizing that Emmanuel is staring at him, waiting patiently for Dean to continue.

            “I . . . You don’t remember me, do you?” Dean asks in dawning comprehension as he notes the absence of familiarity in Emmanuel’s expression. He can’t understand why some of the clones like Jimmy Novak and Angel Cas so clearly recognize him from before, while others like Emmanuel and Misha don’t, but he decides it’s a mystery to tackle later.

            Emmanuel tilts his head to the side, and the familiar gesture nearly makes Dean flinch. “Apologies, but I do not. Did you perhaps visit me for a healing . . . ? You might not know this, but I actually suffer from an acute case of retrograde amnesia, and it’s possible that it might be affecting my short-term memory, although that has never happened before . . .” 

            But Dean quits listening to Emmanuel’s ramblings. He smiles feebly, ignoring the aching in his chest. “No, I, uh . . . Know what? Doesn’t matter.” He sticks out his hand. “Name's Dean Winchester.”

            Emmanuel takes his hand, enveloping Dean’s hand in warmth. “Emmanuel Allen.”

            “Nice to meet you, Manny,” Dean says, and this time Emmanuel doesn’t argue, just frowns in confusion and passive acceptance. “Bet you’re having one helluva day.” He gestures to the clones and Castiel behind them.

            Emmanuel smiles amicably, nodding. “I believe God decided to make my day a little more extraordinary.”

            Behind him, the alternate-2014 Cas snorts derisively, and Dean can’t say he blames him. But it would probably be bad form to tell Emmanuel that Dean would punch God in the face if he ever had the misfortune of meeting the guy. Although he might have to let the real Cas take his turn first.

            “Er, right, God . . . anyway, Manny, how about we work something out after I help Jimmy? You saw how worked up he was. Once we get him set, I'll help you figure something out.”

            Emmanuel frowns uncertainly, the tiniest crease forming just above the bridge of his nose. “Surely you can at least allow me the courtesy to call Daphne so I can assure her I am unharmed?”

            Dean resists the urge to groan, but just barely. How does he explain to a guy that it’s been two years since his wife last saw him, two years since Dean stole her husband from her? Wait, that’s not quite what he means.

            “Dude, you’re just going to have to trust me on this. It’s not safe.”

            Manny sighs, clearly unhappy with that answer, but unlike Jimmy, he seems adverse to turning this into a confrontation. The faith healer lacks bark as well as bite.  It’s such a 180 from how Dean and Cas – both incredibly stubborn and opinionated – usually deal with each other, and Dean’s man enough to admit it throws him for a loop.

            “Perhaps you are right. For one thing, I have no idea how I would explain to her how I found myself in Kansas with no memory of getting here, only to meet eight men who look exactly like me, yet apparently share no blood relation. That would make for quite a strange tale,” he admits, quite seriously and without a hint of sarcasm.

            “See, there you go!” Dean exclaims jovially, slapping Emmanuel on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll take care of you until then.” _Fuck, there’s no way we’re calling up his wife._

Emmanuel smiles back, still a little hesitant. “Thank you, um, Dean.”

            “No problem, Manny,” Dean says. “Hey, until then, why don’t you go find my brother? You saw him, looks like Andre the giant except with girly hair. He’ll help get you comfortable while I finish up here.”

            Before Emmanuel can respond, he’s interrupted by Misha, dancing on his tiptoes with his hand in the air. “Ooh, ooh, let me go with him!”

            “What? Why?” Dean asks mistrustfully.

            Misha shrugs with faux innocence. “I’m bored and it doesn’t seem like you’re going to help me get back to Vancouver anytime today,” he responds bluntly, raising an eyebrow as though daring Dean to nay-say him.

            Dean glares right back at him, for the first time thinking that he might have severely underestimated the slightly unbalanced actor and his capacity for astuteness. He’s definitely going to have to keep an eye on this one.

            Without looking away from Misha, he asks Cas all casual-like, “Cas, what other wards did you put up around the bunker?”

            “I inscribed boundary wards at every key entrance and exit point, working the Enochian sigils of my name into the spell,” Cas answers coolly. “Simply put, no one wearing a body of this genetic makeup – grace or no grace – can fly or walk out.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Including myself. Fortunately, I am no longer employed at the Gas-N-Sip.”

            “Ooh, _boundary_ is a good word,” alternate-2014 Cas chips in, tone pointed and sardonic, though his expression remains as mellow (re: stoned) as ever. “So is _confinement_ , _imprisonment_ , _internment_ . . .”

            “Don't forget  _incarceration_ , something me and the Chinese government are not unfamiliar with,” Misha adds, and 2014-Cas shoots him an approving and slightly speculative look.

            Dean is _definitely_ going to keep those two separated.

            “Okay, _fine_! Misha, go with Manny and find Sam. He’ll give you something to do.” Too late Dean catches Emmanuel’s wide-eyed look and the surreptitious shaking of his head. Dean can only hope he sees the apologetic look Dean shoots him as Misha bounds over and throws an arm around Emmanuel’s shoulders.

            “You don't have to worry about us, Not-Jensen. I’ll take good care of Emmanuel here.” As they leave, Dean swears he can hear Misha ask Emmanuel, “So, Manny – love the sweater by the way – you ever have a tea party on a highway before?”

            Once they’re gone, Dean turns his attention to the remaining two doppelgangers, Angel Castiel and Future Cas, only now noticing the sizable distance that’s sprouted up between the two. Actually, judging by the stiff set of his shoulders and the suspicious, side-eye glances he keeps slipping at the other Castiels, Angel Castiel seems distinctly uncomfortable with both of his fallen counterparts. On the other hand, Future Cas seems perfectly fine with giving Angel Castiel the cold shoulder and pretending the fully-powered angel doesn’t exist.

            “Goddamn, this is ridiculous,” Dean mutters under his breath. “You can’t all be ‘Cas.’” _Maybe I can hand out codenames_ , he thinks idly to himself, perking up slightly. _I’ll be Eagle One -_

            “Dean?” original Cas inquires, leaning forward to glance sideways at Dean’s glazed expression. “Are you feeling unwell?”

            Dean sees his window of opportunity and goes for it because, what the hell, Cas won’t get it anyway. “Hey, Cas. Don’t suppose you’d mind if I, uh, started calling you ‘If I Had to Pick a Dude?’”

            (“ _If_?” he thinks he hears Future Cas scoff).

            Cas smiles uneasily. “I’m flattered you would ‘pick’ me, Dean, but perhaps later you can explain exactly what it is you are choosing me for. After we finish up here, of course,” Castiel adds pointedly, none-too-subtly.   

            “Right. No, yeah, of course. I was just . . .” He clears his throat as a distraction, uncomfortably reminded of how giddy and reckless having Cas by his side makes him, even when under less-than-ideal circumstances. _For fuck sakes, Winchester. Pull your head out of your ass._ He focuses his attention back on the remaining two clones, both glowering impatiently at him now with identical scowls. “Oh, cool your heels,” he scowls back. “I doubt you two have anywhere pressing to be.”

            Quirking a supercilious brow, Angel Cas answers archly in his fuckin’ superior, holy-stick-up-his-ass tone, “Only to lead angelic forces in the fight to stop Lucifer’s ascension,” right as Future Cas drolly replies, “I’m running late for my hair appointment.”

            Dean shoots a dirty look at the pair. Fucking Sass-tiel.

            “You know what, my patience has finally reached its fucking limit.” He jabs a finger at Angel Cas. “Hate to break it to you, Feathers, but I already know how this all plays out. Didn’t even have to wait for the movie to hit theaters. Spoilers: the angels didn’t want to stop the Apocalypse and they most certainly didn’t care about humanity, you poor, dumb bastard. They just wanted me and Sam as angel condoms so that Michael and Lucifer could have their galactic pissing match.”

            Dean will admit, those fancy-ass Texas Hold ‘Em players in the televised Vegas games better count their lucky stars that they’ll never encounter Cas and his poker face. That wooden mask might have even fooled him if he didn’t know to watch for the signs: the minute tightening of Cas’s jaw and the slight squinting of his eyes. “You’re lying,” Castiel growls out, his upper lip quirking in a snarl. “Or misinformed, which is the more probable option.”

            Future Cas just snorts at that, still not looking at the angel but smiling at nothing in that creepy, hollow way of his, like life is just one big fuckin’ joke, and he's the only one in on it. Which, given all that Dean had seen in that fucked-up version of 2014, he supposes that Cas has good cause to be cynical. Dude’s probably not all that far off the mark anyhow.

            “Dean is not confused,” the original Cas addresses his angelic self quietly. His voice does nothing to conceal the resentment and shame he’s harbored for years over his dysfunctional family, but the fierce loyalty he shows for Dean burns like a hot coal underneath. “He speaks only the truth.”

            Dean, however, is busy seizing angel-Cas up, scrutinizing the stiff posture and the flinty stare, arms hanging listlessly at his sides like he isn’t quite sure what to do with the limbs. The angel has definitely been picked out from the very beginning in the timeline of their relationship. Perhaps that won’t matter, though. “You’re already having second-doubts, huh, Cas?” That piercing blue gaze swivels to land on Dean, narrowing suspiciously at the apparently unfamiliar nickname. “It’s, what, 2008 in your time? It’s not by chance Halloween yet?” Dean can feel his body leaning forward imploringly as he says, “I know you’re not your Father’s hammer, Cas –”

            “ _Do not presume to know me, Dean Winchester,”_ Castiel warns, voice snapping like the crack of a whip. “Or my Father.” He takes three deliberate steps forward, putting himself well within Dean’s personal space. The hairs on Dean’s arm rise with the static he can feel crackling in the air. “I’m an angel of the Lord, you should show me –”

            “Some _respect_?” Dean laughs, incredulous at Castiel’s posturing bullshit. “Hate to break it to ya, _Cas_ , but I haven’t been afraid of you in years.”

            Original Cas snorts beside him, glancing at Dean with one glossy black eyebrow cocked. “If that’s true, Dean, then why wouldn't you allow me to drive _my_ vehicle when we and Crowley went to find Gadreel?” 

            “Because that rust bucket you called a car combined with your, what, seven _days_ of driving experience was a chance with death I was not willing to make,” Dean fires back, unswayed by Cas’s petulant pout.   

            “As much as I enjoy the old married couple bickering,” Future Cas rumbles out, looking like he’s doing anything but, “I was hoping we could move this along.”

            Other than the muscle tic in his jaw, there’s no acknowledgement from Angel Cas that he’s even heard his scruffy, human counterpart, but he seems to be of the same mind.

            “Fine, you know what? Cas, if you don’t believe me, here.” Dean opens his arms wide in invitation. “Do the mind-meld thing. My noggin will show you all you–”

            Without so much as a ‘ _thanks very much,’_ Castiel’s right hand shoots up, first two fingers extended, pressing forcefully in the center of Dean’s forehead.

            Castiel and the rest of the room drops away from him, and it feels like Dean’s shoes are no longer connected to the ground as he’s swept away by a torrent of memories. They slip by so fast he can’t grab onto one for more than a split-second, it’s all just a cascade of faces, _Uriel’s condescending expression, Alastair’s creepy grin, Zachariah’s smarmy mug, Ruby's treacherous smirk, Lucifer’s mottled vessel –_

The flipbook of memories stops as suddenly as it started, and coming back to reality is a lot like being the dumbass who steps off the moving carousel. Dean wobbles unsteadily on his legs and would have fallen on his ass if his Cas hadn’t swooped in and caught him by the waist, holding him vertical. Shit, but a few months of mojo-less Cas has left him rusty dealing with angel superpowers.

            “You were supposed to warn him,” he hears Cas snarl out from above his ear, his arm like a steel band where it’s tightened around Dean’s stomach. His breath is hot where it hits the back of Dean’s neck. “Humans are more fragile than you may realize.”

            “We should know,” Future Cas adds from where he’s standing off to the side, checking his nails.

            The angel bares his teeth at his fallen doppelgangers in a snarl that’s more animalistic than human, and for a moment Dean imagines he can see the faint impression of wings arching high above Castiel’s shoulders like an osprey’s.

             Cas has yet to let go of Dean and he can feel the back of his neck flush in indignation. “I’m fine, lemme go, Cas,” he gripes, perhaps more harshly than the situation calls for. He doesn’t miss the pissy look Cas shoots his way as he releases Dean. Whatever, seems like everyone is angry with him for something or other these days.  

             Once more steady on his own two feet, Dean heedlessly snaps at Angel Cas, “Happy now? Did you get a good look while you were getting handsy with my head, Gropey McBraingrab?”

            That alien face focuses on Dean once more, but there are cracks in the ice, hair-line fractures in the angel’s expression as the anguish brimming in Castiel’s eyes threatens to burst through.

            “I . . .” Castiel starts slowly, voice rougher than hewn stone. “I had  . . . concerns . . . when my superiors insisted that is was Divine Prophecy that the Righteous Man’s descent to Hell was not to be deterred by Heaven. That God’s plan was to make him suffer for crimes he’d never committed. It seemed . . . cruel.” He sighs, his rigid stance slumping in like an ice sculpture melting beneath the sun. “I just never imagined the corruption extended so far.”

            As much as he’s proving to be a douchey pain in the ass so far, Dean finds that he pities the angel, knows from experience that having the rug pulled out from under you like this drains the soul like nothing else. There’s that innate urge to reach out and comfort Castiel, fit his hand in the cradle between neck and shoulder and squeeze the rigid muscle in consolation, tell him, _To hell with the angels. You don’t need those mooks, you’ve got us. Family is more than blood or grace._

            But he can’t because this Castiel isn’t _his_ Cas, not yet anyway, and he feels his impotence like an ashy taste on the back of his tongue.

            Cas – the real Castiel – however, has the steel balls to step forward gingerly, outstretched hands visible and still, movements careful and precise like how one would approach a wounded animal. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you may come to find it’s better this way,” he says earnestly, words laced with an undercurrent of that driving purpose that seems innate to Castiel’s character. “But  . . . now you are armed with the truth and with it, you can change things in your time. Make the right choices I never could, and perhaps - just _perhaps_ - you can make things right. You can do _good._ ”

            “Whoa, whoa, Cas, hold up now,” Dean pipes up, uneasy at the sudden fervor burning like wildfire in Castiel’s unnaturally bright eyes. Where the hell is this all coming from? “Just listen to me for a sec –”

            “No, Dean, _you_ listen,” Cas orders sternly, and Dean flinches, taken aback by the vehemence. “He might be our best chance - our _only_ chance - for reversing the mistakes of our past. Think about it: how much he could change, how many of _my_ mistakes could be adverted. The Leviathan, the angel fall - Dean, don’t lie to me and say there aren’t things you wish you’d done differently.”

            Dean reactively opens his mouth to fire back a retort, but he hesitates, and the denial withers on his tongue. Despite his gut-twisting misgivings, there’s a desperate part of Dean that wavers and sees the appeal of Cas’s gambit, short-sighted as it is. It’s not like Dean himself hasn’t spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over the poor decisions he’s made in his life, like worrying a tongue over an infected tooth. Fuck, but how many people could be saved from his reckless choices by grabbing this magical do-over?

            On the other hand, it’s not like they haven’t gone down this road before . . .

            “But why would I?” Angel Castiel questions sharply, breaking Dean out of his thoughts. “I am a Seraph, a warrior of God, it is not my mission to change the fates to suit your whims. Besides, what would be the point?” he asks rhetorically, and it’s here where Castiel’s voice turns surprisingly bitter as the angel’s gaze pans past Cas and Dean to land on Future Cas, expression twisting with something not unlike contempt as he eyes his unshaven human counterpart in his loose-fitting, grimy clothes, posture slouched, grin sardonic. “It’s seems to me that no matter what choices you make, the outcome – _my_ fate – remains the same. There is only destiny and Divine will. You are gravely mistaken if you think there is anything else,” he adds, with a cold look at Cas.

            “There is no such thing!” Cas argues back heatedly, bristling with indignation. “Humans are not the only ones our Father blessed with free will, we angels can also choose, if only we –”   

            “You are not an angel.”

             The admonishment comes down swift and harsh, and Cas flinches like he’s been suckerpunched in the stomach, rebuttal lost before it makes it out.

             Unfazed, Angel Cas continues coolly, “Your human-like hubris alone speaks for itself, I think. You act as though the Fates will bend to your rule simply because _you_ desire it. It's God's will we carry out, not our own.”

            “This isn’t the same thing and you know it,” Cas asserts mulishly, but it’s subdued and without any real conviction, the fire already dying in the wake of self-contempt. 

              “Nevertheless, the fact remains: Angels were not made for free will.”

             “Don’t knock it until you try it, Cas,” Dean adds quietly, clenching his fist at his side,  knowing punching the angel in his stupid face will only result in fractured knuckles and a splintered wrist.

             The angel shakes his head in a condescending fashion, but there is more pity than malice in his tight-lipped expression. “By the looks of things, I already have.” But something softens infinitesimally in his eyes as he gazes up at Dean.  “Forgive me, Dean, if you were honestly hoping I was the miracle cure to all your problems – I cannot help you.”

             “Wait, Cas, will you just –” But the rest of his retort is never heard. Without so much as a terse farewell, Castiel flies away between the space of one breath to the next, leaving Dean and Castiel alone with the last doppelganger.

              Dean exhales between his gritted teeth in a hiss. “Fuck, I’ve forgotten how much of a grumpy dick you used to be," he growls out, slowly relaxing the muscles in his fist.

              Castiel opens his mouth like he’s inclined to agree, but then he pauses and shoots Dean a disgruntled scowl. “You called me a ‘cranky bastard’ just the other month when I wouldn’t abuse my employer’s trust to sneak you free Slushies at the Gas-n-Sip.”

            “Yeah, but ‘cranky bastard’ is, like, two steps down from ‘grumpy dick,’ Dean explains airily. He bumps shoulders companionably with Cas. “See, Cas? Humanity has done wonders for your disposition. You’re practically sunny compared to Dick-with-Wings.”

            “I’d say,” a smoky voice growls, so close that Dean feels the warm breath tickle his inner ear, smells the earthy whiff of smoke that’s not from any brand-name cigarette as well as a pungent mix of sweat and dirt.

             “Jesus tap-dancin’ Christ!” he cusses furiously as he stumbles backward and away from Future Castiel and his sly Cheshire Cat grin. “What the hell, man? Do you seriously still not get the concept of personal friggin’ space?!”

             “Yes, yes, we’ve spent many long and tedious hours discussing your society’s particular hang-up with maintaining a _respectable –_ ” he’s says the word with the same mirthful disdain Dean uses when indulging Sam in conversations of how much alcohol is too much “– distance between two or more human bodies, despite your conflicting obsession with all things carnal.” He raises a hand to his face – nails blunt and underlined with dirt – to lazily scratch at the ample amount of scruff covering his face.  “But more to the point - it’s been an unspoken truce of ours for the last three years or so that we . . . _ignore_ that particular human convention.”

             “I, um, I don’t . . . what?” Dean just barely manages. Was that . . . innuendo? If Dean didn’t know any better, he would say Cas was _hitting_ on him. And he does know better, right? “No, I-I didn’t mean it like that – you don’t have to –”

            “For reference purposes, can you tell us the last thing you remember before you ended up in this parallel 2014?” Cas, in a loud, bossy voice that even Dean knows is considered rude, cuts off his future-self (Is it still the future when they’re both from the same year?

             Dean Winchester: asking the big questions).

             Amused by Castiel’s asperity, Future Cas grinds out a rusty chuckle, dozens of lines breaking out at the corners of his eyes, lines Dean doubts came from genuine laughter and joy. “Straight to the point, I like that. And since you asked so nicely, cousin, I will tell you that before I ended up in Kansas, I was at back at Camp Chitaqua, watching young Dean here stumble around, all starry-eyed and innocent. Well, comparatively.” He glances at Dean through his overly-long bangs, the corner of his lip pulling up into a mischievous smirk.

             Dean just barely manages a small smile in response, but he can barely feel the muscles working through the numbness spreading deep within him, his insides slowly freezing over with dread as one horrible thought tumbles after another. So, what, even if he and Sam do manage to find a counterspell, he’ll have to send this Cas back to that hell hole? 

             His anxiety goes unnoticed by the Castiel’s bedraggled clone, however, who’s already brushing past Dean – passing close enough for the cuff of his worn army-green jacket to brush against Dean’s midriff – to saunter toward the exit. “If you two will excuse me, I think we’re finished up here. As much as I really appreciate being last in line, I don’t actually care what you plan on doing with us. While you and the Devil’s meatsuit are busy dicking about as you pointlessly search for a solution, I fully intend to enjoy my time here, starting by taking the first hot shower I’ve had in years. Oh, _please_ tell me you have running water in this bomb shelter.”

            “Sure do,” Dean calls out. “Water pressure's fantastic.”

            “Great to hear.” Stopping just outside the exit, Future Cas glances at Dean over his shoulder, a teasing smirk playing on those pink lips “Care to join me?”

            “No, he’s busy; we have work to do,” Castiel grits out while Dean’s malfunctioning brain is still short-circuiting itself, and a tiny part of Dean – the stupid, moronic part that can’t take _no_ for an answer no matter how many times it’s become apparent over the years that his feelings for Cas are one-sided – tries its hardest to imagine there’s a thread of jealousy in those words, or even the barest flicker of possessiveness when he’d said _we._

            Future Cas shrugs in nonchalance. “Suit yourself,” he says, winking at Dean before disappearing back into the bunker.

            It’s only when the last doppelganger finally leaves that Dean lets his face fall forward into his hands, a piteous moan erupting from his chest. “Oh my _God_ ,” Dean breathes out. “What the fuck is this, man?”

            “You know, Dean, I might actually be inclined to blaspheme with you this time,” Cas says, still eyeing the spot where his drug-addled clone had vanished from with a grim expression. “On this specific occasion, it seems inappropriate not to.”

            “Hey, Cas – just relax, man. He was just winding you up for shits and giggles. He was like that when I met him the first time.”

            There’s no immediate response, and for a second Dean assumes Castiel won’t answer not because he’s ignoring Dean, but simply because he doesn’t have anything more to add. But then he responds, with more quiet, _seething_ anger than Dean was prepared for.

            “You mean _me_ , Dean. Me. That hollow wastrel of a man was – _is_ – me. That’s the man I’m supposed to become –” Castiel falters, sucking in shallow breaths like he’s on the verge of having a panic attack.

            “No, no, just cool your jets for a second, Cas.” Slotting his hand in the junction between Castiel’s neck and shoulder, Dean turns Cas towards him until they’re forced to meet at eye-level. “That’s what you were _supposed_ to become _if_ Sam had never come back to us and I turned into a world-class asshole. But none of that’s ever going to happen, Cas. Well, maybe I’ll turn into a minor league asshole,” Dean amends with a self-deprecating smirk. “Just lay off the peyote and you’ll be fine. Oh, and forget about that winged dick. He doesn't know what he's talking about.”

            But Cas doesn't seem to be listening. “He was human for much longer than I have been,” he insists morosely. “There’s still time for me to –”

            But Dean’s had enough. “Alright, alright, Debbie Downer,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair in mounting frustration, “if you want to continue stewing around in your misery, be my guest. Or you can take responsibility for your mistakes and help me track down the last two clones.” The kicked-puppy look Castiel shoots at him has Dean softening his reprimand. “It’s all about our choices, Cas. Most of these guys are your bad choices. Here’s your chance to start choosing the right ones.”

            The fallen angel holds Dean’s gaze, distressed mien slowly smoothing into a more placid expression. In lieu of a messy emotional apology or embarrassing words of gratitude, Castiel simply states, “As I said before, the double you referred to as ‘Godstiel’ is currently being held captive in the dungeon, bounded by the both the Men of Letters wards and my own devised sigils. However, it might perhaps be prudent of us to locate my, er . . . I don’t know how to put this delicately – my doppelganger that is currently suffering under severe mental distress? The one with the broken noodle?”

            “Coocoo for Coco-puffs?” Dean suggests, shaking his head in wry amusement. “You sure got a way with words, Cas,” he teases. “But, nah, you’re right. Let’s go find One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest before he pulls a Chief Broom and gives us the slip.”

            As they make their way to the exit, Dean swears he can hear Cas mutter under his breath, “I don’t appreciate being called ‘Debby’, even if you do pair the name with a rather amusing alliteration.”     

 

 

            Picking up on whatever wavelength or frequency or what-the-fuck-ever it is that the other doppelgangers give off, Castiel, with Dean in tow, tracks Crazy Cas to where he’s scuttled away on the far right side of the bunker, past the kitchen, near the shooting range. Dean hasn’t been this way in weeks, not since . . . well.

            Since his return to the bunker, Dean has only visited the room once, and only by the cover of night with Sam safely fast asleep. To Dean’s dismay – and strangely enough, his relief – Sam had yet to clear anything out of the room, even going so far as to leave the bed unmade, as if its owner might perhaps be planning on returning later that night for some much needed rest after a long day spent translating tablets. Perhaps Sam simply hadn’t been able to stomach looking into the room for himself, although Dean hasn’t bothering asking. All the small personal keepsakes had remained, the tattered photograph of a smiling Linda Tran (rest in peace) and the man who must have been Kevin’s father holding an amusingly serious-faced baby, even the second-hand Xbox and its small collection of games with titles Dean hadn't recognized in the slightest.  

            It’s been an unspoken agreement that the room remain closed and locked up for now, a small memorial for the boy who had dreams of great things and instead was trapped in a waking nightmare. 

            Except now that door is swung wide open, with white light pouring through to spill out into the hallway. Tinny voices can be heard – someone had better just left the T.V. on or _so help him God –_

            “Oh, fucking hell, no,” Dean curses under his breath, already breaking past Castiel to charge ahead, snorting through his nose like an enraged bull.

            “Dean, wait, what’re you -?!”

            Dean feels a hand make a grab for his elbow, but he shakes it off, slamming his palm into the door so that it swings backward, slamming into the wall on the other side with a resounding bang. Standing in the door frame with his fists clenched, Dean glowers with murder in his eyes at whatever mouth-breathing dumbass was moronic enough to cross him like this _. I’ll tear their fuckin’ throat out –_

            Curled up belly-down on the floor amongst Kevin’s abandoned clothes and hand-scribbled notes with his chin resting on his knuckles with his slipper-clad feet kicking languidly in the air, Crazy Cas casts a quizzical glance over his shoulder at Dean, his body silhouetted by the light of the TV. On the screen, Shaggy and Scooby are being chased by a killer clown through a funhouse of mirrors. Bemused, the angel blinks dazedly, then raises the TV clicker to show Dean.

            “Were you looking for the remote, Dean? You can have it but only after this intriguingly complex murder-mystery show reveals who’s been scaring away the adolescent humans from the derelict amusement park." Something in Cas's expression goes fuzzy, attention already drifting back to the cartoon. "I have my suspicions about the septuagenarian poultry-farmer.”

            “Get. Out,” Dean grits out through clenched teeth. His vision is clouding over, everything steadily going hazy in red.

            “Dean, what - I – I don’t –” Cas stutters out, frozen in panic as he stares up at Dean like a doe caught in the headlights.

            “ _Get the FUCK out, Cas!_ ” His voice is a shade this side of actual hollering, but Dean doesn’t give a damn who hears him at this point. “ _Get out - this isn’t your room, asshole!_  

            Flinching like Dean's words had physically his him, Cas jerkily scrambles to his feet, stuttering out incoherent apologies, the remote lying forgotten on the floor. Befuddled Cas is shaking like a beaten dog as he helplessly stands there, his gazes jumping wildly from Dean to the real Castiel, pleading for help from the latter. His dilated eyes reflect Dean’s mirror-image back at him. “I-I don’t understand. Why are you yelling? Why is he yelling? What did I do wrong? _Why are you yelling at me, Dean_?”

            “'Cause you have no right to be in here! It's _his_ room, not yours, and you just keep _standing_ there - get the hell out now!”

             Even as he screams himself hoarse, this torrent of inexplicable rage gushing out from some dank pit deep within him, a detached part of Dean is distantly aware of a vague, prickly warmth emanating from his right forearm.

            His verbal abuse is abruptly cut off when a hand with a grip like iron snatches Dean by the scruff of his neck, spinning him bodily around until he’s face to face with six feet of irate fallen angel, staring Dean down with a baleful gaze that sends shivers up his spine. “Dean, enough! What the hell was that?”

            When Dean doesn’t immediately answer, Castiel honest-to-God _shakes_ him, fingers biting into his skin, rough enough to make his teeth clack together. “What’s the matter with you?” he demands, the anger slowly giving way to utter bewilderment. “ _What’s gotten into you, Dean_?”

            He blinks, once, twice – and it’s gone. It’s like a switch has been thrown. The deep, consuming _rage_ has burned out as suddenly as it had overtaken him, seeping back to dark pit it had crawled out from. It leaves Dean shaking with the excess adrenaline, shivery like he’s just come off a high fever. An endless loop of W _hat the absolute fuck just happened?_ plays in his head. And – _oh no._ Still in Castiel's unrelenting grip, he turns his head enough to see the other Cas huddled in the far corner of the room, shaking just as much as Dean, arms curled around his knees as he stares up at Dean with suspiciously misty eyes.  

            Dean made Cas _cry_.

            “Cas,” Dean whispers hoarsely, his voice breaking. But fuck, Dean doesn’t care, he’s screwed up so royally this time, oh God, _why is he like this_?

            Poor, broken Castiel winces - actually _winces_ \- at Dean’s voice, ducking his head and looking like he’s a second away from flying off again. “I d-don’t understand . . .” he whispers haltingly.

            Still held back by the real Castiel, Dean slowly comes back to himself, to this mess he’s created, his tongue tripping over itself as he struggles to get the words out. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Cas. I . . . I shouldn’t have yelled. It was wrong of me. It’s just – this was Kevin’s room. You remember him, right? The Prophet – he died on my fuckin’ watch - but that’s no excuse, I shouldn’t have yelled, man. I overreacted, badly.”

            Shoulders still hunched inward, Cas fiddles with the blue band around his thin wrist – the hospital tag. “But you still want me to leave,” he mutters, and it’s a statement, non-accusatory.

            “I . . . er . . .” _Yes._

            The original Cas finally releases Dean with an impatient huff, rolling his eyes at Dean. “Dean, be practical. We don’t have enough rooms in the bunker to be picky. The Men of Letters built it for only a limited number of staff, a number we may have already exceeded. In all likelihood, you will be forced to house more than just him in this room.” The words themselves are sharp and reproachful, but it’s in the depths of Cas’s eyes that Dean sees the mixture of concern and sympathy. It’s that look that twists Dean’s stomach painfully with guilt more than the admonishment. In a softer tone, Castiel adds, "For what it's worth, I believe Kevin would have wanted his room to be useful in this regard."

             It's a nice sentiment, but Castiel only met Kevin Tran a handful of times. It's Dean who knows better, knows that were he still alive and kicking, Kevin would have bitched endlessly about sharing his room. 

            “No, no,” Crazy Cas says pitifully as he prises himself up off the floor, gravelly voice rougher than ever, like it’s been rubbed raw with sandpaper. “Dean’s right, of course. I have no right to be in the room of a Prophet, it was presumptuous of me to think otherwise –”

            Before he’s aware he has consciously made the decision to move into action, Dean easing forward cautiously but intently. Christ, it’s like constantly walking on eggshells around this guy. “No, no, no. That won’t be necessary. Really, Cas, you can stay. I, ah –”

            The broken angel doesn’t look convinced, his anxiety-ridden gaze never settling on Dean for more than a moment before flitting away.

            Unexpectedly, Cas steps forward, face set with a suspiciously determined expression. “Dean, allow me. I’ve got this.”

            “Uh, Cas. . . What are you doing?”

             “Don’t worry,” Cas replies with the sort of self-assurance that does, in fact make Dean worry. “I believe I may have this, Dean. There was a TV back at the Gas-N-Sip and on slow days I would use it to teach myself all I needed to know to blend into human life. I am confident to call myself proficient in the art of consolation.”

            “Oh, God, this isn’t going to be the sequel to ‘Bad Cop,’ is it?”

            “No, of course not,” Cas shoots back defensively, already sidling up to his distressed doppelganger. “This is a completely different scenario. The advice I’ve been given is sound.”

            “Please don’t tell me you’ve been watching Dr. Phil,” Dean groans, scrunching his eyes to blind himself from the train wreck that’s about to unfold.

            Studiously ignoring Dean, Castiel once again displays complete disregard for the laws of personal space and rests his hand on his doppelganger’s shoulder, who jumps like a cat that's been dunked in water.

            “Hello, friend. Please accept my apologies for earlier,” Cas parrots the words like he’s memorized them from a textbook or something. “Right now you are going through some hard times in your life, but you are stronger for it. You are a strong, confident, beautiful woman and you don’t need no – Oh, wait. That doesn’t apply to this situation. Let me try that again -”

            “Jesus, Cas,” Dean mutters, slapping his palm over his eyes.

            Crazy Cas doesn't seem bothered by it, on the contrary, the little guy seems to be perking up a bit. "Oh, well, that's very kind of you . . ." He trails off, distractedly patting at his coat pockets. “Oh, this is embarrassing. I appear to have misplaced my baggie of honey. Perhaps I can . . . Oh!” Cas drops down to the floor, shuffling on his hands and knees to the corner of the room, by the bed. With a graceful motion, he scoops something smaller than Dean can see, rising back to his feet and shuffling his way back to his original. “This is George,” he says with undeniable pride. “He produces the most heavenly symphonies and it’s a shame he’s never been invited to your music halls. I love him very much, but as a token of our new friendship, I am willing to give him to you.”

            With great care, he plops ‘George’ into Castiel’s waiting hands, and Dean, whose curiosity has gotten the better of him, inches closer for a better look, peering into Castiel’s cupped hands.

            “. . . That a cockroach?” Dean wrinkles his nose as he stares down at the ugly brown thing sitting contently and twitching its feelers like Cas’s palms are the best damn vacation spot.

            “No, of course not,” the real Castiel practically _coos,_ for Christ sakes. “George is a gryllinae. Commonly known as a cricket,” he adds, catching Dean’s nonplussed expression. "Look at his beautifully formed antennae."

             "Yes, and I can see it just find from here," Dean says testily, not liking how 'George' seems to be eyeing Dean's face like it's gearing up to stretch its legs.

            Expression soft, Cas turns to his nervously smiling doppelganger. “Thank you, C-Castiel," he says, the stumble over his own name barely noticeable. "Rest assured that I will take great care of him.”

            “He’s, ah, really cute, Cas,” Dean lies like his pants are on fire, with what he hopes is a convincing, appreciative look.

            Blushing, Crazy Cas ducks his head, a small but pleased smile gracing his features.

            “Right.” Dean claps his hands together. “Cas, we’re got one last clone to check up on, so you can just stay here, make yourself at home. I, uh, think Kevin had some video games you can play. Or, you know, you can watch your cartoons,” he offers diplomatically, a peace offering. “Just make sure you don’t blow out any of the lights.”

            The nose-scrunching smile drops with alarming swiftness, replaced by the kicked-puppy look. “You’re leaving me?”

            Smelling another panic attack coming on, Dean backtracks urgently. “Woah, hey – take it easy, buddy. No one's leaving anyone. We just need to make a house-call on one last, uh, you.” He grimaces. “Trust me when I say you don't wanna hang out with this asshole. Things might get hairy.”

            “Yes, yes of course,” Cas says lowly, face paling with fear. “It’s for the best if I stay here. That way you can minimize the chance of me getting in your way and letting him escape.”

            The worse part – the part that has Dean’s lower belly twisting with guilt and pity – is that Cas doesn’t even sound all that miserable when he says it, or hell, even hurt, only accepting, like it's fucking logical. “That’s not what I meant, Cas,” he says firmly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

            “Here.” The real Castiel steps forward again, holding out the cricket. “Take George for now. He will keep you company until Dean returns.”

            Crazy Cas accepts the insect back with tender hands, cooing nonsensical murmurings. He glances up at Dean, his shy grin breaking across his face. “I’ll just wait here until Meg gets back. I’m quite sure she’ll appreciate his dulcet tones.”

            “I’m sure she will.” The words are barely understandable hissed between Dean’s clenched teeth, his jaw tense from the fakest smile he's ever plastered to his face, but Crazy Cas doesn’t notice, already drifting back towards the T.V. "Right . . . we'll just . . . be on our way. Hang tight until then, ya hear, Cas?"

            Cas doesn't look up, already engrossed in the cartoons. "Goodbye." 

            It isn’t until Dean and Castiel have left, Dean's shoulders noticeably slumped in dejection, that the angel finally breaks his silence. “Dean, are you all right? What . . . what was that back there?”

            Obviously, Cas is alluding to Dean’s freakout over the damn bedroom, but because the last thing Dean wants is to hash out something he can't even explain himself, is actually a little terrified that talking about it will just make that white-hot anger return, he replies tersely, “Loose-Screws back there seemed pretty fixated on finding his demon girlfriend. Makes me wonder what you two got up to." He attempts a pale imitation of a smirk, even as it feels like acid is boiling in his intestines just from thinking about it. This was a horrible diversion topic. "Sounds like someone got a sponge bath.”

            “You’re being ridiculous,” Cas replies shortly. “You know it wasn’t like that between us.”

            “Really? Could have fooled me,” Dean scoffs bitterly, remembering all too well how eager Meg had been to sink her venomous claws into Cas so she could attempt to jump into his pants at every given opportunity, or use him as an angel-shaped gun against Crowley. His stomach revolts in protest when he recalls how Meg had said she could _jog his memory_ when she’d encountered Emmanuel (although at least Manny had had the good sense to be wary of her).  “You were the one who said she had, and I quote, ‘thorny beauty.’ Well, I’ve seen her true face and let me tell ya – yes on the thorny part, hell no on the beauty part."

            “It’s ill-becoming to speak poorly of the dead, Dean,” Cas says stiffly, and it’s clear from the hard note in his voice that this conversation is burning Castiel's patience off at both ends. A part of Dean wants very much to keep wheedling at Cas and continue picking at this sore spot between them, like an insect bite you know will get infected but still you keep at it, but he figures he’s done enough damage for the day.

            And now he can’t stop thinking of Cas manhandling Meg against that dirty wall, tongue-fucking her like he was born knowing how. Great. Just fucking great. He’s going to have to stock up on the brain bleach.

             They’re just outside the dungeon when Cas pulls him aside and says quietly, “I know you have good reason to hate her, and I'm not asking you to reconsider your opinion. But regardless, I would like to know what you're going to tell him when he asks where she is.”

            “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Dean answers gruffly, not looking forward to that conversation. If Crazy Cas starts crying over Meg, Dean doesn’t think he’ll be able to hold back his raging jealousy this time.

             Some of that very same jealousy (or, more likely, disgust) must show on his face, because for the first time Castiel hesitates, looking guilty. "Dean, I -"

             “Let’s just get this over with,” Dean says shortly, officially done wasting another breath on Meg fucking stole-her-name-from-a-dead-girl Masters. 

             The little storage room acting as a front for the dungeon is silent, but that does little to settle Dean's nerves. Old habits have him pulling out his gun, even though he knows it’s useless against the monster-masquerading-as-a-benevolent-god inside. Cas doesn’t even bother taking out his angel blade. Fair enough. Not like it worked the last time.

            “Hey, uh . . . maybe I should take point on this one and you can sit this one out,” Dean says, knowing even as he makes the suggestion the bitchface he’ll receive for his troubles.

            Sure enough, the scorching glower aimed his way is so magnificent, so full of indignant exasperation, it would do Sam proud.

            “Dean, there is no one better than me who knows what that blasphemy behind those shelves is capable of,” Cas snarls, the words breaking off in sharp snaps until he’s practically spitting. 

            Dean just raises his eyebrow like Cas made his point for him. “That so, hotshot? What if you here is what he wants?”

            Squinty eyes narrow onto him. “What do you mean?”

            “Look at yourself, Cas. We haven’t even gone in yet and you’re already worked up. You need a cool head to deal with this jackass or he's gonna make you another smear on the wall.”

            “Forgive me if I don’t think you’re a fair judge of even-keeled temper, Dean,” Cas quips in that fuckin’ superior tone.

            It piques his pride, but Dean bites back a retort because, hey, fair enough. “I’m just trying to look out for you, buddy,” he promises softly.

            “It’s like you said, Dean. Running from my problems has done me no favors in the past. It's time I faced my demons head on.”

            He’s got no argument for that. With a much aggrieved sigh, Dean flips the switch that activates the sliding bookcase, standing back as the shelves swing open to reveal the Men of Letters fully-stocked dungeon.

            “Holy shit.”

            Five seconds in and he’s already breaking form, letting his nerves rattle his composure like some irresponsible greenhorn, but it’s kind of hard – actually, no, _impossible_ – not to be more than a little unnerved at the gruesome sight Godstiel makes chained by the neck and hands to the same chair that had occupied the King of Hell for months.

            It isn’t until now that Dean realizes he’d been expecting Godstiel to look just like the regular angel Cas, except for the pitiless stare that threatened to swallow you whole if you stared too long.

            He hadn’t been prepared for all the blood.

            It’s all over the new God, paints the collar and front of its otherwise starkly white dress shirt, fans out to stain the trenchcoat, crowns the top of its head so that it sticks to the hair in spiky clumps. The crimson fluid even covers part of its face in messy splatters.

            It’s hard to see past all the blood, but Dean can just make out the scab-like marks radiating from the corners of his eyes, evidence that Jimmy’s body is slowly burning out as a million million ravenous monster souls devour it from the inside out. Dean's stomach turns in on itself.

            For the first time Dean is grateful Novak was expelled from his body years before this shitstorm following the second Apocalypse went down.

            “Dean,” it greets, composed (Dean refuses to refer to the impostor-god as ‘he’, not when millions of monsters souls and Leviathan are howling behind those glassy blue eyes. It’s a mutation, a disease – a blasphemy, as Cas called it – taking Castiel's face out for its own personal joyride. Cas might have been the cause of this creature’s existence, but in the end he was just as much a slave to the souls as Jimmy Novak’s body was). “My Righteous Man.”

            “I’m not your anything,” Dean spits out.

            “But of course you are,” it says, smirking indulgently like Dean is a child that must be corrected and taught by a firm hand. It doesn’t exactly instill warm, fuzzy feelings in him. “Why else would I come back for you?”

            Dean sneaks a peak at Cas, who’s looking just as confused and troubled as Dean feels. “Come again?”

            “I didn’t have to come to you this time, you know. I felt the pull of the medallion, its summons callings to me from across time. I could have easily ignored it and continued setting in motion my glorious designs for my New Kingdom on Earth.” The god contorts its face into something that might be wonder, but it might be nothing but a mere façade to manipulate Dean with. “But then I realized it was _you_ who was calling to me, Dean. You needed me,” it says, confident and sure.

            “You lie,” Cas growls out from behind Dean. He only now notices how reluctant Cas seems to get any closer to his godly body-double, not that Dean blames him. “I was the one to touch the amulet; Dean has nothing to do with this.”

            “Yet he is the key to all of this. Funny how that works out,” Godstiel muses. Its blood-framed eyes lock on to Cas. “Try to keep up, mud-monkey.”

            “Hold up.” Ignoring Cas’s protest, Dean strides up to the table and splays his palms on the wood, trusting that Sam and Cas locked the chains tight so that Godstiel can't rise from its seat and burn his eyes out. “You saying you know how the curse works?”

            The creature smugly responds, “As a God, the machinations of mundane human spells are well within my vast knowledge. I’m a little miffed, Dean, that you'd think I wouldn’t.”

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’re all torn up about it,” he snarks back. “You gonna tell us how to fix all this or not?”

            When Godstiel grins this time, it’s hungry and shark-like. “And what will you do for me in return?"

            “How about I don’t cut your head off?” Dean replies cheerfully. “Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.”

            When Godstiel chuckles, its an awful, _screechy_ thing, like all the creepy-crawlies under its skin are chittering right out of Jimmy’s vocal chords. “With what? You have no weapon. You can’t _kill_ God, Dean.”

            _That’s what you think, asshole. All I have to do is wait for Crowley to get back before I get to shiv your ass._

Seemingly without reason Godstiel jerks forward in its chair to put its face within inches of Dean's. The chains rattle and groan in warning as the wooden chair scrapes along the floor, but they hold. Dean holds his ground, but only barely, taking comfort in the hand that Cas has latched onto his shoulder as Godstiel’s blood-washed face studies him intensely, roaming across the panes of his face. It takes everything within him not to gag in revulsion from the sight. But then Godstiel just tilts its head to the side in a gross parody of Cas’s gesture, blood and black ooze dripping from its head to ooze down its neck and shoulder, slowly pooling on the floor. “Tell me, Dean. What it was like meeting such an infamous ancestor?” With supernatural precision, its eyes land on Dean’s right forearm. “Did he perhaps leave you with a little parting gift, my beautiful Knight?”

            Dean stiffens, and shit, Cas will be able to tell. Time to leave.

            He shoves away from the table. “That’s not what I’m looking for, you fugly canary. Until you’re ready to sing, you can just kick up your feet in here and wait. Come on, Cas.” With his heart fluttering in his chest like a wild bird, it makes it twice as hard to walk in a steady gait out the door, pretend everything is normal. Pray Godstiel won’t expose his secret. _Cas can't know, at least not yet._

            “You can’t leave me in here forever, Dean,” Godstiel calls out to him angrily, its blasé composure finally cracking across its surface. The tiny room is assaulted with the harrowing furor of what seems to be a thousand wings beating at once, kicking up a gale in the dungeon.  Above them, the light fixture begins to flicker erratically. “Eventually, you’ll come crawling back and you will _worship_ the ground I walk upon! You will become my _consort_!”

            Its screaming can still be heard when Dean and Cas shove back the shelves hiding the room. It isn’t until they’ve escaped the cluttered storage room and make it halfway back to Sam and the library that Dean feels free of prying ears. “You positive your wards will hold, Cas?”

            “They should . . .” he replies. Yeah, not exactly encouraging. A lull of silence falls between them, and it’s not until Castiel breaks it that Dean realizes it was hesitance. “Why are you lying to me, Dean?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies shortly. Cas's dubious silence speaks volumes. Dean backtracks hastily, reluctantly admitting the truth, or, at least, the parts he can allow Cas to know. “Okay, listen. All that megalomaniac was squawking about in there was this lead Crowley and I were chasing down on how to kill Abaddon. Guy happened to be vaguely related to me. Total coincidence. That’s it. It was a dead end.”

            He can practically feel Cas’s frown, prickling at his skin. " _Crowley_? Dean, after all he's done, why would you ever -?"

            "Because he was the only one who knew how to find the lead," Dean lies, and it's almost effortless. "It's done, okay? A one-time deal."

            Castiel only continues to watch him carefully, expression worried.

            With an explosive groan Dean grips his face with his hand, throwing his head back. “Do you even remember any of this happening, Cas? Like, some of them are past versions of you, so you should remember something!”

            Scratching at the dark scruff that’s accumulated across his jaw, Cas answers, “Yes, that had occurred to me . . . but I don’t remember a thing.” 

            Voices are coming from the library. From the sound of things, it looks like Jimmy (or Misha?) is arguing with another clone over the proper use of a laptop. Apparently, at least one clone is computer-illiterate. “What are we going to do, Cas?” Dean sighs.

            “I don’t know, Dean. I wish I did, but I don’t."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Did any one catch the Parks and Rec reference/ popular tumblr meme? I literally have no excuse for for that, except that now I apparently headcanon Dean has gotten really into Parks and Rec lately and when Sam catches him, he says he watches for Ron Swanson and “that hot Ann chick” (but really he’s got crushes on both Ann and Chris).
> 
> Also, take note that while I tried to have this story’s Misha share a few traits with the real man we all know and love, take note that really is supposed to be Meta!Misha from the French Mistake, so when I write him kinda douchey and self-centered, this is in no way based on my opinions of the real Misha Collins. Also, since I kinda got the feeling that French Mistake! Jared and Jensen were pretty mean and/or completely ignored Misha, I’m planning on incorporating that into this story. (There may or may not be brief implications of cockles, though. Still working that out) Same warning applies: while I do think J2 love to tease Misha, it’s pretty clear they think he’s a great guy and their friend, so don’t turn this into a ‘J2 doesn’t like Misha’ or ‘J2 is mean to Misha’ sort of thing. Cause I will shoot you down in flames. 
> 
> In regarding the brief mentions of one-side, unrequited Megstiel, I’m planning on presenting the ship as I interpret it in canon, in that Castiel’s feelings were purely platonic, and that Meg’s were mostly sexual (in that she wanted a weapon she could fuck) with sparks of true affection (as much as a demon is capable of feeling). Discussions of the sexual assault aspects of the 'relationship' will be discussed later in the story, and will be tagged appropriately.
> 
> Also I fully acknowledge that Godstiel and Crazy!Cas were kinda rushed through at the end there. I have more things planned for them later.  
> How many people actually read this far?
> 
> (Fuck I need to go back and fix all my typos all over again...)


	3. Jimmy Novak (Hey, Sinner Man, Where You Gonna Run To?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly, Jimmy doesn’t even flinch at Dean’s caustic retort, just peeks open one eye so only a sliver of blue shows. “I’m sorry, that was a low blow,” he admits, in a tone what might even be considered sheepish. “I guess I’m just envious . . .” He lolls his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I thought I was following some grand destiny that God had mapped out for me, but instead it was always about him.” He adds dolefully, “Maybe I was always just meant to be a place-holder for Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: This chapter was written and completed months before certain spoilers for season ten were released. While I was a little miffed that my fic would no longer mesh with canon (but mostly excited for the upcoming episodes), I decided that since this is ultimately one of my favorites scenes I've written, changing a seemingly minor detail to make it canon-compliant would have taken the story away from the direction I wanted to take it. 
> 
> Warnings: Frottage, blowjobs, kinda-sorta dubcon, in that alcohol is involved, and a kiss that taken without permission (Idk, but I know some people appreciate the heads up)

           The thing about witch hexes is, ganking the warty bitch usually does the trick. Not so with cursed objects.

           Midnight has long since come and gone, and the Winchesters and the ragtag group that constitutes their Mystery Gang are no closer to finding a reversal to the curse of the medallion than they were when Dean got back to the bunker several fuckin’ hours ago. One by one, Charlie, Cas, and the other clones eventually wandered off to bed, the doppelgangers stashed in various rooms throughout the bunker (which had been a nightmare: Crazy Cas just wouldn’t stay put, trailing after Dean from room to room like an imprinted ducking until Sam, in a stroke of brilliance, had distracted the basketcase with a shabby-looking box of Connect-Four. Dean still has no idea from where Sam had been able to scrounge the thing up from, maybe with a time machine to the seventies. Dean had assigned Emmanuel as Crazy Cas’s roomie-slash-babysitter, sticking them (begrudgingly) into Kevin’s old room. Unlike with Misha, who seemed to take a special, sadistic joy in making everyone around him as uncomfortable as possible, Emmanuel didn’t seem to have much of a problem with meeting a deranged version of himself and had easily complied with Dean’s request. After that, all he’d had to do was fork over Charlie’s iPhone charger to Misha, triple-check the wards around Levi-Cas and Godstiel’s cells (the former had enjoyed catcalling at Dean through the door), practically padlock the booze and medicine cabinets, and, finally, after much cajoling and downright pleading, persuade Angel Castiel to go Invisible Girl and keep a close eye on Future Cas and his one allotted bottle of bourbon).

            It’s only been a day, and Dean’s already about to tear his hair out.

            Now it’s just Sam and Dean left, perusing one dusty tome with too-small print and archaic language after another, straining their eyes as they scroll through more and more obscure websites. All this late night research is going to have him in glasses by the age of forty, Dean thinks to himself morosely.

            It’s another half hour before Dean decides it's time to call it quits for the night and start making road plans for the next day. Hopefully Amelia and Claire haven’t fled the country, because Jimmy’s S.O.L. if any form of aviation is involved. He stiffly rises from his chair, groaning, his achy joints popping with every movement. He hobbles his way over to the table where several fast food bags rest, most crumpled up but it looks like one might still have something decent. “Hey, Sam, you’ve seen Jimmy?” he calls over his shoulder.

            Sam stretches his long arms back, rolling his neck to get a crick out. “Yeah, why?” he asks, eyes still glued to the computer screen, far too casual to be believed.

            Dean rolls his eyes and shakes the bag of fast food that was part of dinner earlier. “Because I haven’t seen him since, like what? – when he disappeared with the laptop – and I want to make sure the scrawny bastard got some dinner. We might be tracking down his family in the morning, too, so I’ll need to see what information he’s dug up.”

            “Dean,” his little brother reproaches him, putting on his best lecturing bitchface. “You don’t have the time to make what might very well be a cross-country trip when we have this mess on our already-loaded plate!”

            “It’ll be fine, Sammy,” he reassures testily, really not in the mood to get into it. He knows Sam means well, is only thinking of the man’s safety, but Dean knows that Jimmy would have been impossible to handle if they hadn't given in just this little bit.

            “And what if Jimmy gets there and refuses to come back with you?” Sam points out pragmatically, which is when Sam is at his most annoying.  “What if we need all of the clones present to reverse the spell?”

            “ _I’ll deal with it_ ,” he grits out.

            Sam sighs, but capitulates out of sheer exasperation, attention already turning back to the computer screen. “He’s in the bedroom across from the kitchen.”

 

           

            Carrying the fast food bag with him, Dean arrives at Jimmy’s – hopefully temporary – bedroom. He raps his knuckles against the door. “Hey, Novak, you up, man?”

            It’s quiet for a few seconds, and Dean raises his hand for another attempt, but then: “Yeah . . . come in, I guess.”

            Dean opens the door and lets himself in. The light in the room is dim with only one lamp on, and Dean’s hardly taken a step forward before he’s tripping over what he quickly realizes are Jimmy’s legs, nearly breaking his damn neck before he catches himself on the bedpost. “Jesus, what’re you -?!”

            “Hey-hey, watch yerself!” Jimmy shouts at the volume only the heavily intoxicated use from where he’s sitting sprawled across the floor, leaning heavily against the bedpost. Clutched in his hand is a half-empty bottle of Jack. Specifically, _Dean’s_ bottle of Jack, the one he keeps by his bed and apparently forgot to hide.

            “Now this is the type of research I can get behind,” he jokes weakly, wondering what finally pushed Jimmy to find comfort in hunter’s helper, and if he’ll have to be put on suicide watch. . . .

            Still dressed in his Sunday best, Jimmy peers blearily up at him, his eyes bloodshot enough to make the blue appear electric. “You were apparently – _hic_! – out of red wine, so I made due.” Great, looks like Jimmy’s just as much of a lightweight as Cas.

            Dean snorts. “You won’t find any of the communal wine here.” He kneels down, reaching into the paper bag and pulling out the greasy cheeseburger he’d gone into town specifically because he’d remembered Jimmy’s predilection for red meat, figuring it might soften the guy up some. And since the rest of the clones all share the same vessel, he’d figured he’d kill at least four birds with one stone (He’d let Sam deal with Misha, since Dean doesn’t have the slightest clue what kale even _is_ ; angel Cas had bluntly declined the offer of even a cup of coffee; and Levi-Cas and Godstiel, well, probably would have requested a people-burger, extra-rare, with a side of Purgatory souls or something equally horrifying if Dean had bothered asking. As it stands, he kind of hopes the two will just starve out, if such a thing is possible).

             He waves the foil-wrapped burger in front of Jimmy’s face. “Last time we met, I think you downed damn-near half a dozen of these. Figured you might still have a hankerin’ for some good ole Mickey D’s.” He sniffs delicately, gets a heavy whiff of the alcohol wafting up from Jimmy. “You up for some dinner, Slim-Jim, or are you going to puke all over my floor?”

             Apparently struck speechless, Jimmy just blinks up at Dean with glassy eyes, slack-jawed, like he doesn’t understand why Dean is taking pity on him . . . After a moment he grimaces and rakes a hand through his hair, long since teased out of its neat comb-over, waving the proffered food away. “Just put it on the side desk, I’ll get to it later.”

            Shrugging in nonchalance, Dean sets the food aside, now noticing the laptop open on top of the bed, screen dark from inactivity. “So were you able to find any leads on your family? Chances are good they went deep into hiding, so don't feel bad if you haven't found anything yet. It'll take time.”

            “Oh no, I found them, alright,” Jimmy says dully. “Your friend Charlie was able to follow their data trail and she found Claire’s – ah, whazzit called, the chatroom the kids like? – her ‘Facebook’ page. And, well . . . you can see for yourself.” He waves a floppy hand, permission for Dean to go ahead and snoop.

            Slowly, not exactly sure what to expect, Dean gingerly takes the laptop and turns it to face him, brushing his fingers on the touchpad to reawaken the device. On the screen is a profile picture enlarged to show a blonde teenage girl smiling up at him with Castiel’s – er, Jimmy’s – blue eyes. The name at the top says Lexi Montgomery, but Dean is pretty sure this is the same girl he met only once years ago, when Castiel had possessed her for a brief amount of time. Any doubt is obliterated when he recognizes the petite woman standing with her chin on her daughter’s shoulder, an older version of Claire with shorter hair, in the arms of an unknown man with wire-framed glasses and a bristly mustache. A family photo.

            “Ames . . . she, um, remarried last year,” Jimmy mumbles out, taking another sip of the whiskey. “He’s an accountant. They left Pontiac to live in Chicago and Cl-Claire –” Jimmy’s voice breaks, and it’s another few seconds of working his throat before he can get the words out “– will be going to Berkley next fall.” A strangled noise claws its way out of his throat, and it’s one part joy and two parts sorrow.

            The 'Montgomerys' grin up at Dean from the pixelated photo, the background showing some park with lots of sun and leafy trees. A snapshot of the apple-pie life, proof that escape after a run-in with the supernatural is possible. _Not for me, though,_ Dean thinks grimly. _I already went down that road and I still failed._ Rationally, Dean knows that at any time he could open up Ben’s Facebook, see if another man has filled that space Dean left behind. But he knows he won’t, so he pushes that private thought back into the box where it can stay hidden.

            He looks closer at the picture on the screen, studies Claire and Amelia Novak. If Dean concentrates hard enough, he thinks he can see past the gleaming smiles façade to the shadows underneath that still haunt them – the lingering ghost of a dead father and missing husband – in the tightness of Claire’s eyes or on the band of skin around Amelia’s ring finger, white like a grave marker. Or maybe he only sees what he wants to.

            “This doesn’t mean we still can’t go,” Dean says eventually, voice a soft whisper in the dimly lit room. “I’m pretty sure Claire would want to see her dad again, even under these, erm, unusual circumstances.”

            “No.” Jimmy ruefully shakes his head. “No, Dean, your brother was right. Look what happened last time I returned from the dead. I wasn’t thinking rationally earlier - I thought we would be safe together, that I could just walk back in like I’d never left and things would go back to the way they were before. Instead  . . . instead I brought Satan’s army howling to their doorstep and it nearly _killed_ them!” His voice breaks on a breathy sob. Dean can hear the liquid inside the whiskey bottle slosh as Jimmy presses his forehead to the glass. His eyes clamp shut, crow’s feet breaking out in lines of pain. “A second time . . . definitely would. I love my family too much to damn them with my presence.”

            There’s a point Dean Winchester can’t argue with.

            He and Jimmy Novak are the farthest thing from friends and as far as Dean figures, his presence can only torment Jimmy further. At a complete loss for words, Dean sets the laptop back on the bed and gingerly picks his way over Jimmy’s feet to beat a hasty retreat. He nearly misses the mumbled plea:

            “Can you . . . can you stay? Please?”

            One hand caught on the frame, Dean pauses just outside the door, looking over his shoulder to where Jimmy still sits sprawled along the floor, grief bowing his shoulders inward. The dark haired man doesn’t look up at him, just fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, but Dean knows what he heard.

            He bites his bottom lip, takes a gamble. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I quite heard that.”

            _That_ gets Jimmy’s head to jerk up, the scowl etched clearly on his face. But his next words are strong and unwavering. “Don’t be a dick, Winchester. You owe me, so sit your ass down here so I don’t have to add ‘lonely drunk’ to my list of sins.”

            Smirking, Dean plops down beside Jimmy, snatching the bottle from his loose grasp to take a swig for himself. The alcohol burns down his throat and warms up his belly with its familiar fire. “Huh. I think you’ll have to clarify exactly what it is I owe you, _Novak. ‘_ Cause last time I checked, I’m the one who’s putting you up for the week.”

            Yeah, this is a role he knows how to play. God knows he’s spent plenty of nights camped out at dingy bars getting sideways drunk with Sam, teasing each other and trading terrible jokes, all just to detach themselves from their bloody and miserable lives for a brief few hours.

            “You owe me, asshole, because I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for your angel.”

             Despite the second-hand guilt Dean feels on Cas’s behalf, he can’t ignore the tingly jolt that pops in his chest like a firecracker at the words _your angel,_ and he fiercely hopes Jimmy can’t see his scalding blush in the dim light. _Jesus, is it that obvious?_

             “Jeez, Jimbo, for a scrawny dude who used to sell ad time on AM radio, you sure do have a mouth on you. I thought you Christian boys were raised better than that,” Dean drawls, doing everything to keep his eyes off the plush lips in question.

            Jimmy rolls his eyes, not unlike the way Cas does when Dean needles him too. “In case you didn’t notice from last time, I’ve since divorced myself from the Lord and no longer consider myself one of His flock. I’ve decided that since I’m going to be stuck here for an indefinite amount of time, I might as well make good on my guaranteed spot in Heaven and allow myself a taste of the things I’ve spent my lifetime denying myself.” He demonstrates his new-found philosophy by stealing the bottle back and taking a liberal swig. While Novak’s distracted, Dean allows his gaze to linger on the long-fingered hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle. He’s forgotten how pale Cas used to be, skin white as alabaster, making the angel all the more ethereal to Dean when they’d first met. Now Cas has a tan darker than Sam or Dean’s, has put on more muscle . . . Quite frankly, nowadays it’s Cas who looks like the born-and-raised human and Jimmy the otherworldly creature.

            _And, wow, that thought got out of hand quickly,_ Dean thinks, chagrined. _Stop perving on the married man, Winchester, for Christ’s sake._

            Novak coughs from the unexpected burn of the whiskey and his hacking and sputtering makes Dean grin. “I like the way you think, choirboy. Reminds me of my year of debauchery before I took my trip downstairs. ‘Course, mine involved more loose women, if you know what I mean.” He lathers up a devious smirk with an extra dollop of lasciviousness, just to get Jimmy to make his scrunched-up cat-face of disgust. “It was actually a lot of fun,” he muses, scratching at his chin. “Up until those last few months when the sword began to drop.”

            A flicker of what might be guilt crosses Novak’s face. “Guess I forgot I’m not the only one continuously screwed over by the machinations of Heaven and Hell.”

            Chuckling mirthlessly, Dean answers quietly, “You don’t even know the half of it, Jimmy.”

            Glancing away, Jimmy smoothes one pale hand down the leg of his dress pants. It’s quiet for several moments as the two men trade the bottle of whiskey back and forth, each lost in his own thoughts, before Jimmy finally speaks. “What are we doing here, Dean?”

            Dean doesn’t have to ask for clarification. “Jimmy, I have come across some fucked-up shit that you wouldn’t even begin to believe. I’ve seen a seventy-something-old man turn a town full-on Looney Tunes, ballet slippers that made some poor bastard tap-dance to death, and one time the Archangel Gabriel turned my brother into KITT from _Nightrider_. Not to mention the lucky coin that brought a suicidal teddy bear to life. In the grand scheme of my crazy-ass life, man, a magic medallion releasing my best friend’s other halves is well within the ballpark of _mundane._ ”

            Jimmy dips his head forward, concealing his expression in shadows. “Is that all I am, then?” he asks, voice almost small. “A shadow of Castiel?”

            “I didn’t say that –” Dean protests.

            “You didn’t have to. I could see it in the way your brother acted around us, like we’re all just some mess to be fixed. Like we’re just extra little pieces of a puzzle that’s already completed. But I _feel_ like myself, Dean,” Jimmy whispers in anguish, staring down at his slightly shaking hands. “I don’t feel like a ghost - like a _piece_ of Castiel. I feel like me. _I – I want to be me_!”

            “Hey, hey, just take it easy, Jimmy,” Dean says. “Trust me, no one is thinking that. _I’m_ certainly not thinking that. Do we want to find a way to send you guys back? Hell, yes! I don’t want Leviathan slobbering all over our bunker. But . . .” He knocks his elbow playfully into Jimmy’s ribcage. “If we can’t find a reversal spell, you’re more than welcome to stick around. I’m, uh, sure Cas won’t mind too much.” 

            Jimmy snorts. “That’s a lie.”

             Unable to think of a decent counterargument, Dean just watches uneasily as Jimmy throws his head back and shuts his eyes, sighing heavily in exhaustion. Silence falls between them again, Dean taking another gulp of the whiskey out of habit. Unexpectedly, Novak chuckles in derisive amusement. “Speaking of Castiel . . . he sure does wear my body well. Almost like he thinks it’s his own. . . .”

            “That’s because it _is_ his body,” Dean snaps, refusing to let Jimmy take his frustration out on Cas. “His is the only consciousness knocking around in there, you were long gone up until –”

            He cuts off abruptly, rubbing angrily at his mouth. He shouldn’t have let his temper run away from him like that, but Dean isn’t going to let Jimmy take cheap shots at Castiel when the angel isn’t even there to defend himself. _Not that he would if he_ was _here, stupid, self-deprecating idiot._

           Surprisingly, Jimmy doesn’t even flinch at Dean’s caustic retort, just peeks open one eye so only a sliver of blue shows.  “I’m sorry, that was a low blow,” he admits, in a tone that might even be considered sheepish. “I guess I’m just envious . . .” He lolls his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I thought I was following some grand destiny that God had mapped out for me, but instead it was always about _him_.” He adds dolefully, “Maybe I was always just meant to be a place-holder for Castiel.”

            Pulse beating unsteadily in his throat, Dean reaches out to put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. It’s thinner than Cas’s, nearly engulfed by Dean’s broad hand, but still lined with hard-packed muscle. “Hey, hey. I think Amelia, and Claire especially, would disagree with you.” _And you brought me Cas,_ Dean thinks, although he’s pretty sure that isn’t something Jimmy particularly wants to hear.

            Jimmy manages a tiny smile. “Thank you, Dean. You’re a . . . you’re a good man. I . . .” Jimmy hesitates, expression worn and hangdog. “Despite my behavior, I realize it isn’t fair that I continue to dump all my anger at Castiel on you. I apologize.”

            “Yeah, well.” Dean sniffs, slightly mollified. “I know perhaps better than anyone that Cas has a lot to make up for, but believe me, Jimmy, no one tries harder than him. Cas is a good guy, and he’s learning . . .  how to make the right choices.”

            Jimmy hums thoughtfully, a speculative look gleaming in his eye that Dean isn’t sure he likes. “You know, I still don’t really remember a lot from my time with Castiel, and most of what I do is more of a gnarled mess of impressions and feelings, things that half the time were too alien for me to even begin to comprehend.” He goes to takes a sip of the whiskey but pauses, pink mouth brushing the lip of the bottle as he continues. “But what I do remember is how he saw you.”

            Dean blinks. "What?"

            Jimmy lolls his head to stare at Dean, his mused hair curling over his forehead, and Dean watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. “Dean, my earliest childhood memories were attending church with my family. Every Sunday morning, my family and I would sing hymns to praise His name, listen to our Pastor tell stories about Jesus and his Apostles.” He ducks his head shyly and smiles, and Dean dimly notes it’s a good look on the man. “I enjoyed the tales the most, especially about the people. King Solomon, the Holy Mother, David and Goliath. My favorite was Noah, an ordinary family man who was asked by God to become extraordinary.” Jimmy grins wryly, his gaze flickering to Dean with a hint of shyness. “So naturally, when Castiel came to me and asked for my service, I said yes without a second thought. I had faith my God would safely guide me on my journey, wherever that may be. Yet my faith in God and his Divine plan couldn’t even compare to even a silver of the absolute conviction Castiel had in you from the beginning.”

           Now Dean’s positive he’s blushing crimson and that this time Jimmy definitely can see, judging by his small, slightly smug grin. Why the hell are they even talking about this anyway? His first instinct is to deny, but he can’t ‘cause his own fuckin’ blast from the past is skulking around this bunker, at one turn sulking and moody and just generally having a crisis of faith, the next parading with his holy nose in the air, acting like nothing has changed and remaining dead set on getting the _Righteous Man_ – and what a complete crock that turned out to be – to pull the plug on the Apocalypse-that-already-never-happened. (Yeah, Angel Castiel is really starting to irritate the fuck out of him).

           “Where’s this headed, Jimmy?” Dean says tersely, because all this religious savior talk is doing is bringing up bad memories for him. Yeah, sure they had made the Hail Mary Pass and adverted Armageddon, but it sure as hell hadn’t felt like winning, not with Sammy in the Pit. And Dean Winchester, so-called Righteous Man, had done nothing but lie there and get the crap beaten out of him by Lucifer. It’s Sam who saved the world, not him.

            Jimmy’s shoulders lift in a minute shrug, his eyes breaking away from Dean to look down at his hand, where he fiddles nervously with his wedding ring. It’s a simple gold band that Dean has never once seen on Castiel, even during that first year. Although he’s never thought to ask, Dean likes to think that Cas kept it in his pocket for Jimmy, just in case (even thought the reality is probably the ring got carelessly tossed years ago).

              “I just, um, I wanted you to know. Like I said before, I was taught all my life that sometimes God chooses special people for His divine tasks, and to see you through Castiel’s eyes . . . Sometimes it got to be a little overwhelming,” Jimmy chuckles, his smile crooked. “I may have lost my faith in my God, but from what I’ve seen to today, Castiel never lost his faith in you.”

            In response, Dean makes a noncommittal noise, unwilling to get into it with Jimmy how Cas’s ‘regard’ for him hadn’t stopped the angel from leaving him high and dry to go play sheriff in Heaven after Stull Cemetery. Hadn’t stopped him from betraying the Winchesters for Crowley. Hadn’t stopped Cas from leaving him _again_ in Lucifer’s crypt to run off with the angel tablet.

            Caught up in his dark thoughts, Dean doesn’t notice Jimmy slipping off his wedding ring and putting it into his pocket.

            “Hey, Dean,” Jimmy whispers, and Dean can feel the hot sweep of Jimmy’s breath fan across his face, smell the whiskey as he turns his head instinctively closer. He can’t remember when a foot between them suddenly became a scant few inches, but it is now and his pulse is speeding out of control and Dean should definitely pull back, give the man his space. Yeah, he’ll definitely do that, soon as he can stop staring at those damn blue eyes. “Remember how I said I wanted to . . . _try_ some new things while I'm stuck here?”

            “Y-yeah?” Dean croaks out, his throat warm and tight. In a flash of memory, he remembers that night in Maine, years ago, when he took Cas to that cathouse so he _wouldn’t die a virgin._ Which is ridiculous, the two situations couldn’t be more different because Jimmy Novak, family man through and through, isn’t interested in anything like _that_ –

             While Dean’s caught up in his whirling thoughts and distracting images of a rumpled-looking Cas being attacked by distressed hookers, Jimmy leans forward and presses his lips to Dean’s in a rather chaste kiss that’s less than fluid, only catching the corner of Dean’s mouth and mashing their noses at an uncomfortable angle.

            Instinct and muscle memory react faster than rational thought. Before Dean realizes it, he’s dropping his lower lip to kiss back, molding his mouth to the lush lips, reaching out to cup the back of his head, because he’s been dreaming about this for far too goddamn long, and yes, they’re just as chapped as they look, Cas really should invest in chapstick, but _God_ , what’s with that fucking cologne he’s wearing –

Except Castiel doesn’t wear cologne, he naturally smells like lemon and pepper corn and something metallic, like copper, and – _This isn’t Cas, stupid, it’s Jimmy!_

            Three seconds too late, Dean violently jerks his head away from Jimmy, his body crashing into the corner of the bed as he pushes backward, whacking his elbow in the process.

            “ _What the hell was that, man?!”_ Dean sputters, and goddammit, if he hasn’t just woken up the entire bunker it’ll be a damn miracle. His heart feels like it’s trying to escape his body through his throat, his entire face is about to burst into flames, and the skin of his lips still tingle from the ghost of Jimmy’s warm, wet mouth. “Why did you –? _Mmhmhmh_!”

            The rest of his freakout is cut short by Jimmy’s callous-free hand clamping firmly over his mouth.

            “Will you relax, Winchester?” Jimmy whispers pointedly, obviously cognizant of the fact that the walls are far from soundproof.

             “ _MMHMHHMHHMH_!” is Dean’s belligerent reply.

             But Jimmy only inches closer to him, beseeching with those too-blue eyes. “Dean, please, let me explain.”

             Breath whistling where it breezes over Jimmy’s fingers, Dean glares at him for a good half-minute longer, trying to manage a threatening look that promises violence if Novak doesn’t remove his hand, but all he gets from Jimmy is the same imploring expression (with more than a tiny bit of lust). Still reluctant, Dean nods slowly. Apparently satisfied with Dean’s mute response, Jimmy pulls his hand away, but doesn’t retreat from Dean’s personal space. “I probably should have asked you first,” Jimmy begins ruefully, but he doesn't sound completely regretful, not when his tongue keeps sneaking out to dab at his bottom lip. "I guess I got nervous."

            “No shit. At the very least you could have warned me!” Dean whisper-shouts. This is probably the first time he’s ever yelled at a hot person for making out with him, but Dean’s supposes there’s a first time for everything. “Seriously, man, if this is your way of coping or, I don’t know, getting over your wife–”

             “This has nothing to do with Ames,” Jimmy growls hotly, showing Dean his now ring-less hand. “She’s moved on with her life and I will respect that. This . . .” Hesitating for only a moment, his hand reaches out tentatively for Dean’s arm, sliding up to the back of his shoulder when Dean makes no move to shake him off. “This is for me.”

            Something about the heat flaring in Jimmy’s eyes tells Dean that Jimmy’s angling for more than just a good make-out session. One part of Dean is freaking the fuck out, wondering how the hell he went from comforting a grief-broken man to staving off his advances. But the other part – the part where all his blood must currently be headed – only sees Castiel, not Jimmy, gazing steadily at him with bedroom-eyes and pink, plush lips, lips he’s been dying to kiss and lick and bite for _years_ now. It’s a damn wet dream come to life.

           “Jimmy, no, no, you’re not thinking straight, you’re drunk,” Dean protests, but even to him the effort sounds halfhearted at best. Maybe Jimmy’s not the only one feeling the effects of the alcohol.

          “I think the term you’re looking for is ‘tipsy,’” Jimmy corrects, just this side of haughty. “Despite what I know you think of me and my straight-laced appearances, I can actually hold my liquor quite well, Dean. Ames and I used to go wine-tasting before Claire was born.”

           Dean rolls his eyes. “That makes me feel so much better. . . And you’re Christian!” Dean points out. “Aren’t you guys, like, uh . . .”

           “Winchester, I swear to the God I have no longer devoted myself to that if you say ‘homophobic,’ I will punch you,” Jimmy states flatly.

           “Well, it’s a legitimate concern!” Dean huffs, chagrined.

            But it seems Jimmy’s had enough of Dean’s half-assed objections. Moving so that he straddles Dean’s lap, Jimmy pushes gently back until Dean’s shoulders hit the bed post. “Dean, I’ve already told you, I spent a year meeting you through Castiel’s eyes. When he didn’t have me asleep and tucked away, I was bombarded by his thoughts and feelings – usually revolving around you, how you frustrated him at every turn, yet awed by the strength of your conviction and humanity,” Jimmy says, voice waning to a soft murmur. "And then I finally got to meet you -"

           "Bet you sure were disappointed," Dean tosses out carelessly, but Jimmy just shakes his head with a rueful smile, his thumb rubbing circles into the meat of Dean's shoulder.

           “No, no, not that . . . I mean, yeah, you and your brother were a pain in the ass, but . . . you stuck up for me, Dean. You barely knew me, yet you risked your neck for me and my family.” Jimmy chuckles softly to himself. “No one’s ever done so much for me for so little.”

          "Why are you telling me this, Jimmy?” Dean says in a low whisper, eyes wide.

          “I . . . I don’t know.” Jimmy ducks his head, hands retreating to fiddle with his tie. “I guess what I’m saying is that at some point I, er . . . _kindadevelopedacrushonyou_.”

          Dean blinks at the mushed torrent of words. “Uh, come again?”

          A rather adorable scowl appears on Jimmy’s face, framed by the pretty splotches of pink blooming on his pale face. “I had a crush on you, okay? I mean, I _think_ it’s a crush, I’ve never been attracted to guys before, but with you . . .” He catches himself rambling and immediately clams up, only opening his mouth to squeak out, “Please don’t make me say it again.”

         “Oh, yeah, I could definitely tell,” Dean replies drolly. “Biting a guy’s head off is the sexiest pickup line I’ve heard in a long time. Surprised you’re not beating the fellas off with a stick.”

         Jimmy groans in exasperation, ducking his head until he buries his face in the crook under Dean’s neck. “I said I was sorry!” he mutters into the skin, but it only serves to make Dean’s burgeoning affection grow. “To be fair, you’re _really_ an annoying dick sometimes.”

          Dean is snickering now, blood fizzing with the alcohol and a rush of giddiness he hasn’t felt in goddamn forever, maybe not since he played hookey with Cas in Idaho. Because maybe the man currently nestled in his lap is not a thing like Cas, not in the ways that matter, but his body doesn’t seem to know the difference, eager to start getting this show on the road. The way things have been going lately, Dean will probably never get this chance with Cas (a constant ache in his chest that he has learned to live with), and having a secret tryst with his body-double is becoming more and more appealing by the moment.

          Carefully, making sure Jimmy can see the movement and won’t be spooked, Dean lightly pinches Jimmy’s dimpled chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up until they make eye contact. There’s an energy volleying between them, not the same static electricity that fills the air whenever he and Cas are in the same room together, but it definitely has a unique flavor. “You positive about this? I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

          Smiling softly, Jimmy places his palm on Dean’s face, his hand warm and smooth from a life of mostly peace and happiness. “I still love my wife, alright? That’ll never go away, and when I leave, I’ll be waiting for her and Claire to join me in Heaven. I just . . . I have a lot of complicated feelings for you, Dean. And, if my hunches are correct, you’re not exactly ‘just friends’ with Castiel anymore, am I right?”

          Now it’s Dean’s turn to flush, instinctively pressing his lips tight to keep his dirtiest of secrets locked up. Jaw tight, he glares at Jimmy, daring him to call him out on his silence, but Jimmy just gazes steadily down at Dean, the knowing sympathy in those blue orbs tearing Dean up inside like he’s swallowed razors blades.

          Eventually he caves, ducking his head and chuckling humorlessly. “Guilty as charged. But trust me, it’s not requited,” he mutters, inwardly wincing at how self-pitying that sounds. But Dean knows it’s the truth, knows it every time Castiel leaves, every time he chooses the angels over Dean. The angel Naomi telling him, _I only wish he felt the same way,_ had only been the final nail in the coffin.

           “Maybe we can finally make up for lost time,” Jimmy suggests demurely. Dean makes for one last protest, but Jimmy swiftly cuts him off with a peck on his lips, this time actually sticking the landing. “Think of yourself as my unfinished business,” he says, before diving back in and going to town on Dean’s mouth.

           And hot damn, if the first few seconds of that rather chaste kiss have already made Dean’s top five, this one just might take home the blue ribbon. Despite this probably being what Dean assumes is Jimmy’s first intimate interaction with a man, he’s quickly got into the swing of things, wrapping his arms around Dean to snuggle closer. Once both Jimmy and Dean work through their initial nerves, closed-mouthed kisses quickly graduate into teasing nips and hot swipes of wet tongue, a little sour from the alcohol, but it only serves to make Dean more determined to run his tongue alongside Jimmy’s and find his real taste underneath. _Finally_ Dean is able to sink his hands into that dark hair, running his fingers through the soft strands. Even if they don’t move beyond this, just these hot kisses, at the very least he’ll finally be able to have an image of a Castiel with sex hair made from _his_ hands.

          Fortunately, Dean might not have to wait long for more.

          By now Jimmy has sunk further into Dean’s lap, just the perfect angle for rubbing their wakening groins together in a slow, deep grind. That first kiss had made him half-hard to begin with; having Jimmy attack his mouth like he’s trying to crawl inside of him has Dean hard as diamond. And judging by what’s currently poking his hip through Jimmy’s thin slacks, he’s not the only one a tad overexcited. It’s not much longer before Dean feels hands scrambling at his shoulders, making to push off his jacket. Smiling against Jimmy’s lips, Dean decides to be more nuisance than actual help, finally moving from Jimmy’s plush mouth to begin licking and biting at the gorgeous expanse of pale neck in front of him, the very same neck that has starred in more than one of Dean’s wet dreams. Fuck, what a weird fetish to have, but there you go. He’s definitely going to leave a bruise (or two or three) on the tender flesh before the night is out.

          He can feel the growl as is vibrates up that same throat. “Dammit, Dean, stop distracting me.”

         Dean only chuckles, kissing Jimmy’s Adam’s apple, loving how it bobs in response. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies innocently. But he swats away Jimmy’s hands all the same, shrugging off his green jacket, next going for the red plaid he wears over a black t-shirt.

         “Jeez, how many layers do you Winchesters wear?” Jimmy complains. “You’re wearing half the Sears fall catalogue.”

         “Me?” Dean sputters playfully, tugging at the blue tie (somehow it’s only Castiel that ever wore it backwards). “You’re not exactly dressed for the beach, pal.”

          Impatient, Jimmy rucks the t-shirt up over Dean’s head, finally getting Dean bare-chested. Dean can’t help but feel a jolt of electric arousal thinking about the sight they must make, him partially clothed with Cas’s body-double looming over him, fully dressed in a suit no less. Hopefully Jimmy doesn’t mind a little extra pie-pudge. Breathing heavily now, Jimmy drags his hot palm down Dean’s chest, over his tattoo. Dean shivers when his thumb catches on Dean’s nipple.

         “Sensitive,” Jimmy murmurs in fascination. “. . . Hey, what’s that?”

          Before Dean can stop him, Jimmy’s other hand latches onto Dean’s right arm, turning it over to reveal the vivid red curled 'F' of the Mark emblazoned on his forearm.

          The urge to rip his arm out of Jimmy’s grip, to connect with a fist to his jaw and scream that he keep his nose out of other people’s business, wells up inside Dean from out of nowhere, like a viper rearing up to sink its fangs into Jimmy’s throat. _Just like with Crazy Cas in Kevin’s room._ Honest to fuck, it scares Dean a little with its intensity, and he just barely manages to tamp down on the inexplicable rage boiling beneath his skin. This time, anyway.

          “It’s – it’s nothing,” he manages to choke out. “Just a scar from a, er, wendigo.”

          “Do I even want to know what that is?” Jimmy asks with a grimace, tracing a finger lightly against the crimson curve.

          “Probably not,” he admits. When Jimmy makes not move to stop, Dean insists, “It’s not that interesting.” _Just drop it, Jimmy._ “But I promise I can show you something better,” he says with a lascivious smirk, hooking a thumb in the belt loop of his jeans and tugging downward, revealing a glimpse of pale, freckled skin.

           “Yeah, I bet,” Jimmy murmurs, finally turning his attention away from the Mark in favor of more earthly pleasures. Hand coming to rest at Dean’s hip, Jimmy just continues to stare down at Dean, apparently mesmerized. “Wow,” he breathes, eyes skipping up and down the length of Dean’s body. “You, uh . . . you look pretty, um, good.”

           Dean just smirks at Jimmy’s sudden shyness, affection blooming in his chest, wiping out that irrational surge of anger. What surprises him is that the warmth has nothing to do with Cas: Jimmy is somehow managing to carve a space for himself inside of Dean all on his own. “You gonna get rid of the Constantine suit and show me what you’ve got, choirboy?”

           That just makes Novak blush harder, wringing his hands in his dress shirt, wrinkling it something fierce. “Yeah, that was before I learned you were built like an Abercrombie and Fitch model,” Jimmy mutters, not meeting his eyes.

            “Hardly,” Dean snorts, then teases, “Come on, Jimmy, don’t you dare get stage-fright on me now.” Dean playfully smacks Jimmy’s ass, delighted by the shocked noise it elicits. God, they’ve barely gotten started, and already it’s so much better than Dean could have ever dreamed (and he’s had plenty of time to guiltily fantasize about his first time with a dude, thinking he would never get the opportunity). His excitement is wiping out any jitteriness Dean was convinced he would feel. It’s been years since his first awkward adolescent fumblings (restricted to only when John was out of town on a hunt), and he still regrets never calling up Aaron, but Dean has always held himself back, never let himself look more than once, unable to break too many years of denial and playing a role. To say he has been so far in the closet he has a winter home in Narnia wouldn't be much of an exaggeration.  But saying yes to Jimmy was like letting the dam burst, and it makes the waiting so fucking worth it.

 _Just make sure you don’t jizz in your pants, idiot,_ his brain yells at him.

            “Fine, fine!” Jimmy snaps, the strain of nerves creeping into his voice. He starts loosening his tie. “Just don’t expect much. I do . . . did fun-runs from time to time for church fundraisers, but . . . I know I don’t exactly look like you or anything.”

             Dean snorts. “I should hope not. Pretty sure that would count as incest.”

            Jimmy flings the tie at him in retaliation, then shrugs out of the black suit jacket. The movement is graceless, his tremors visible, and Dean starts to worry that maybe his apprehension is worse than he’d made it out to be, that he’ll back out. Dean rubs his hand in comforting circles along Jimmy’s thigh, hoping to soothe him with the grounding touch. It seems to help a little, as Jimmy smiles shyly at him as he begins to pop the buttons of his dress shirt, revealing creamy skin inch by inch.

            When Jimmy finally shucks the white dress shirt, Dean whistles in appreciation. Sure, Jimmy might lack the beefy muscle that Cas now sports (years of hanging with the Winchesters and fighting demons have given Cas one hell of a workout regimen, as he’s now built like a brick shithouse compared to Jimmy), but Jimmy has a wiry runner’s body, not slender or scrawny, but just hard muscle in all the right places. Already those hipbones are making Dean’s mouth water. And yeah, Cas is definitely tanner than Jimmy, but that just means whatever marks Dean leaves will stand out better.

           There’s an adorable little freckle by his right nipple that has Dean breaking into a wide smile.

            But Jimmy is still anxious, slouching his shoulders and refusing to meet Dean’s eyes, so he just whispers lowly, “Get down here,” before latching a hand onto the back of his head and bringing Jimmy down into a heated kiss, pulling out every trick he’s picked up over the years into getting Jimmy to pant and writhe like a bitch in heat above him.

            Chest to chest now, the atmosphere of the dimly lit room quickly turns from nervous and playful to frantic and sweltering, Dean and Jimmy going at it like two lonely men who’ve been starved for far too long, biting desperately and licking into each other’s mouths. It’s a bit artless at first, complete with bumping noses and one unfortunate case of clashing teeth (and fuckin’ _hell,_ that hurt), but after a muttered apology they eventually settle into a good rhythm, Dean’s tongue stroking alongside Jimmy’s as it invades Jimmy’s mouth to explore and conquer. Soon Dean allows his other hand to wander from Jimmy’s hips, straying up along his flank to palm at his flat belly, them moving up his chest, loving the smooth ascent. It’s so different from a woman’s smaller body, her soft curves, and it’s exactly what Dean needs. His other hand continues to card through Jimmy’s dark hair, scratching lightly to make Jimmy shiver.

           Jimmy’s hands are likewise preoccupied, one curving to cup the nape of Dean’s neck, fingers buried in his short hair, and the other tracing the hard line of Dean’s jaw.

          “Can feel your stubble,” Jimmy pants between breaths. “Never, heh, felt that before. It’s different.”

           “That a problem?” Dean asks, a little curious. Even though it’s been several hours since Jimmy and the rest of the clones appeared, Jimmy remains completely clean-shaven and five-o’-clock-shadow-free, which is a little disconcerting, if Dean’s honest. Effect of the spell perhaps, some preservation side-effect?

           “No, I love it,” he purrs, moving away from Dean’s lips to nuzzle at the scrubby part of his neck. He mouths at the bristle-covered areas, nibbling at the delicate skin.

            As much as Dean’s loving all this, at thirty-five he’s no longer the young buck he used to be, and his back is already beginning to vehemently voice its protests at being pressed by Jimmy’s weight into the hard corner of the wooden bed frame. “Hey, why don’t we move this upstairs?” he suggests while Jimmy’s preoccupied sucking a hickey in the crook of Dean’s neck.

            Jimmy moans something that vaguely sounds like an agreement, his now wild hair tickling Dean’s cheek when he nods enthusiastically. Of course, moving into a vertical position is easier said than done. Like some demented four-legged beast with no working hands, they drunkenly push themselves up off the floor, Jimmy’s hands staying wrapped around Dean’s shoulders while Dean blindly reaches behind him, and they eventually flop backwards onto the bed. All the while Dean can’t control the giggles that slip out, the rush of lust and whiskey rushing through his veins into a potent cocktail of desire and need.

             Hovering unsteadily above him, Jimmy stares down at Dean, eyes half-shuttered. “Looks like someone can’t hold their liquor,” he accuses teasingly, a smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth. Swollen with kisses, the already plush lips are now a tantalizing shade of candy-apple red, and Dean can proudly say he knows they taste as good as they look.

             Dean scoffs playfully. “Hey, I’m not the one who takes his shirt off after a little whiskey, you lush,” he slurs. Jimmy doesn’t deign to answer, just stares pointedly at Dean’s bare chest with raised eyebrows. “Oh. Point taken,” Dean concedes.

            As fun as all this goofing around is, Dean decides it’s time to take matters into his own hands and kick things up a notch. With a well-practiced move, he hooks his foot around Jimmy’s ankle and twists, rolling them sideways and deftly flipping Jimmy onto his back. Now the one on top, Dean chuckles throatily at Jimmy’s indignant squawk. “There we go,” he growls huskily, leaning forward to plant his palms on either side of Jimmy’s head. He nuzzles the tip of his nose against the line of Jimmy’s sharp jaw. “Gonna make you feel so good, Jimmy boy.”

            With a little shifting, Dean gets his right leg nestled comfortably in between the vee of Jimmy’s legs. He presses forward experimentally, rubbing his thigh gently against Jimmy’s crotch.

            Jimmy lets loose an almighty groan, needy and wanton, and soon begins desperately rutting the growing bulge in his dress pants against Dean’s leg. “Oh, sweet, heavenly saints, do that again!”

          Dean grins wolfishly down at Jimmy. “I’ll do you one better,” he says, moving his leg to align his own clothed cock with Jimmy’s. Dean bites back a moan at the increased pressure while Jimmy whimpers, biting at his bottom lip. Even through the thick denim of his jeans and boxers, Dean can feel the heat radiating off the hard line of Jimmy’s dick, the gathering wet patch in his pants. His own dick throbs in anticipation, precome gathering at the tip. Shit, his boxers are going to be soaked soon.

          Licking his lips, Dean grinds his hips down against Jimmy’s pelvis, reveling in the bursts of sparking pleasure the action elicits. Jimmy seems likewise enthralled, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets loose another needy moan. _Damn, I need to taste that,_ Dean thinks fleetingly, and doesn’t hesitate chasing that thought and sinking forward to capture Jimmy’s lips again in his. He keeps one elbow planted firmly on the bed as leverage so he won’t accidently crush Jimmy, the other he wastes no time in getting tangled back in Jimmy’s bedraggled hair.

           Fast-learner that he is, Jimmy has no trouble picking up where they left off, darting his tongue into Dean’s mouth in teasing swipes, licking along the roof. He even retreats to nip teasingly at Dean’s lower lip, soothing the stinging mark with his tongue. Dean increases the tempo of his hips in praise, the incredible friction building the pleasure to dizzying heights. Jimmy keeps up, rocking his own skinny hips up to rub their clothed cocks together as his hands rub up and down the contours of Dean’s broad shoulders.  

           “Can we –” Jimmy swallows, doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes, even though there is scant few inches between their faces. “Can we do this without, um . . .?”

           “Without our pants?” Dean guesses, figuring it’ll be just as good in their boxers, won’t be pushing Jimmy for too much too soon. “Sure, just let me –”

            “Without anything, I mean,” Jimmy corrects softly, his eyes finally meeting Dean’s, and Dean feels a pleasant jolt in his groin when he sees the blue has nearly been eclipsed by the pupil.

           Dean can’t help the growl he lets loose in delight. “I think we can do that.” He smirks mischievously before swooping in to steal another kiss. “Be back in a sec.”

            Jimmy groans pitifully in loss as Dean sits up off the bed, fighting back a chill that skitters up his chest in the absence of Jimmy’s warmth. But he soon realizes it’s worth it just to stare down at Jimmy Novak lying debauched in bed, eyes blown wide with lust and hair wild, a black-and-red hickey blooming on his pale neck and his pants tenting obscenely. Fuck, but Dean would give up girls altogether ( _and_ his subscription to _Busty Asian Beauties_ ) just to wake up to this every morning, he thinks wistfully.

            Pushing away that impossible thought, Dean quirks his lips into a cocky smirk, taking his hand and trailing it down his own chest and enjoying how Jimmy’s heated gaze tracks his progress greedily. He sways his hips – just a little, nothing fancy – because Dean is nothing if not an audience-pleaser when it comes to dancing the mattress polka. It’s one of the few things he knows he’s good at, like killing things and making the best damn hamburgers in the state. And right now, he’s practically got Novak salivating like he's grade-A beef, staring as Dean’s fingers run through his treasure trail to the button of his jeans. Nothing like a sexually-repressed Christian exploring bisexuality for the first time to make Dean feel like hot stuff. 

             When Dean just dances his fingers along the waistband of his pants, Jimmy barks out, “You’re such a goddamn tease, Winchester.”

           “Yes, sir,” Dean answers easily, loving this bossy side of Novak and already plotting how far he can take it. He finally unbuttons his jeans and unzips, pulling down both his jeans and his boxers in one fell swoop. He bites back a hiss as the cotton slides over his sensitive cock, but its sweet relief when his dick finally pops out for some air, ruddy at the head and standing proud, pointing unerringly towards Jimmy. 

             Jimmy lets out a breathy sigh as his gaze locks on Dean’s erection, and Dean damn-near swears he can feel the prickling heat of it. Jimmy’s tongue darts out to dab at his bottom lip and Dean’s dick gives a jerk.

            “Wow, this is really happening,” Jimmy breathes out in stunned disbelief. 

             Dean is right about to ask Jimmy if he still wants to go through with this when Jimmy’s hands make their way to the button of his own slacks. His movements are shaky but sure, undoing the clasp and pulling down the black suit pants, leaving Jimmy in what must be the ugliest and most unflattering pair of white boxers Dean has ever seen. But none of that really matters as Dean eyes the huge bulge protruding underneath the fabric, a wet spot forming in the material.

              Inhaling deeply, Jimmy locks gazes with Dean as he begins to pull those white boxers down, revealing hips that look like they’ve been cut with diamond. Dean feels his breath catch because here it is, what he’s been imagining for years, he’s finally going to catch a glimpse Cas’s erect cock. . . .  

             When Novak pulls his shorts down his legs and impatiently kicks them off, his cock finally joining the party, Dean releases an audible sigh, hand automatically going to grip the base of his own cock to give it a little squeeze of relief. Jimmy’s dick is cut like a good Christian boy, jetting up from a neatly-trimmed bed of wiry black curls, all flushed and pretty. It’s not a long as Dean’s, but only marginally, and it’s definitely thicker, curving slightly to the left up Jimmy’s flat belly. It’s better than all his wet dreams, and all he wants to do is reach out and touch it, wrap his mouth around it just to get a _taste._ But he can’t, not yet.

             “Tell me what you want, Jimmy,” Dean says.

             “Come here,” Jimmy answers with surprisingly little hesitation. Maybe Dean should stop allowing himself to be surprised and simply accept that just maybe this little Christian family man wants this as badly as he does.

              Shucking his pants from where they hang off his ankles, Dean ambles forward until he’s within Jimmy’s reach, allows himself to be pulled back down onto the bed. His skin is alight with fire and pleasure at every contact point where his and Jimmy’s bare skin touch, and Dean soaks it in, unable to hold back a moan as Jimmy reclaims his mouth. Their kisses are furious now, full of tongue and nipping teeth, gripping at each other’s hair and clutching at hips. If Dean shifts just a bit, he can get their cocks lined back up. . . .

            But then Jimmy is turning his face away, tapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Wait, hold up a second, Dean.”

            Fighting through the haze of lust is difficult, but Dean manages. “W-what? What is it? This too much?”

            “No, I want to try something,” Jimmy says, already wiggling out from under Dean. “Here, lie down at the head of the bed.”

             Game for essentially anything at this point, Dean obeys, crawling up the bed. “Back or belly?”

            “Back, please. I don’t think it’ll work the other way.”

             When Dean gets settled, head propped up with his one hand on top of a pillow, Jimmy moves to settle above Dean, hovering on his hands and knees. Dean’s heart is hammering against his ribcage now, because he _thinks_ he knows where this is headed, but if he allows himself to think about it anymore, he just might prematurely blow his load. And won’t that just be a fine way to ruin this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? So Dean focuses his attention away from his own body and entirely on Jimmy’s, how it looks prowling up the length of Dean’s torso, sleek and sinewy, his swollen cock hanging low between his pale thighs. Dean spreads his legs just a hair to make room as Jimmy settles between his legs.

 _Oh, God, this is really happening,_ Dean thinks as Jimmy’s head lowers, excitement and a slight edge of panic twisting in his gut.

            “I’ve, um, never done this before,” Jimmy informs him, breath warm and moist where it fans over Dean’s dick. “So just bare with me.”

            If this were just Cas here with him, Dean probably would have playfully razzed him a bit, made a quip about how you wouldn’t know it from those cock-sucking lips. As it is, he simply reassures Jimmy with a strangled-sounding, “Just remember to watch those pearly-whites, yeah? No guy likes a tooth to the dick.”

            Jimmy just huffs, the _No duh, even I know that_ implied, and the gesture reminds Dean so much of the angel that Dean nearly chokes out Cas’s name when the first brush of Jimmy’s tongue hits his cock.

            Holding onto the base of Dean’s dick, Jimmy begins at the plummy head, licking along the slit, and then working his way down the shaft, following the engorged vein running down the length, pulsing with each pass of Dean’s hot, slick tongue. Jimmy’s inexperience is obvious, but for what he lacks in tricks he makes up for in a forward curiosity that’s somehow blindingly erotic, making sure to swipe his tongue along every inch of Dean’s throbbing, needy erection. At Dean’s encouragement, he noses at Dean’s crotch to suck at his balls, gently cradling them in his mouth one at a time.

            “Holy fuck,” Dean breathes out and clenches his fists, already panting, eyes screwing shut when Jimmy finally wraps his mouth around the silken head and begins to slide down. With an effort, Dean forces his eyes open so he can watch the first two inches of his dick disappear into Jimmy’s mouth, now engulfed in the wet heat. He moans as he feels Jimmy’s tongue twirl like a corkscrew around the meaty shaft, electrifying his nerve endings, and it nearly makes him go cross-eyed.

            “How I taste?” he can’t help asking, more than a little curious.

            Jimmy’s mouth pulls off with an audible _pop!_ “Salty, but . . . good, _really_ good,” he says after some consideration before diving back in. 

            Watching Jimmy on his knees for Dean is putting all sorts of dirty thoughts into his head, thoughts of how they must look, of how much a fuck-you this must seem to Heaven and all its holy plans. “Hey, Jimmy?” Dean growls out, finally moving his hand to rest gently at the back of Jimmy’s head. “Tell me how you feel about blaspheming the God that fucked us both over.”

            Jimmy moans in response, the ensuing vibration like a massage to Dean’s dick, and he begins to pick up the pace, his head now bobbing up and down, taking a little more each time. His hand gets in on the action, curling up the length and jerking what his mouth can’t reach.

            “Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” Dean growls out, fighting the urge to thrust his hips into that tight, slippery heat. There’s no stopping his mouth now, not when he’s revved up like this. Many of his previous partners had told him he can be pretty chatty in bed. Time to find out if Jimmy likes a little dirty talk in bed. “Just look at you, Jimmy. You look so pretty with your pink lips wrapped around my cock, my fat, red cock, sucking me down. You’re taking me so well.” Not exactly the most original of dirty talk, but given this is Jimmy’s first time with a man, Dean figures he can pass it all off as creative.

            Dean’s lips curl in a smirk as he gets an idea. “Hey,” Dean says throatily, “if we do this again, think you’d be up for wearing a priest's cassock? Let me confess my sins?”

            Jimmy glares in response, evidently unamused, but when Dean just grins unrepentantly, the sneaky bastard retaliates by pulling off Dean’s dick (Dean mostly certainly does _not_ whine), taking a deep breath, and then sliding his mouth back down, down, _down,_ deep-throating Dean in one go.

            “ _Shitshitshit_!” Dean hisses as Jimmy manages to swallow only once before gagging, abandoning his attempt to cough and sputter, shooting him a sheepish look. Dean peers blearily at him, the urgent ache in his groin warning him he’s a hair’s trigger from coming, and he feels a moment of panic, because Dean is nothing if not a charitable lover, and he’ll be damned (again) if he comes first.

            “How’s that for sexy?” Jimmy tries for nonchalant, but it’s clear he’s a little embarrassed. But damn, his voice is wrecked, closer to Castiel’s, and Dean has to firmly squeeze the base of his dick to push back the oncoming tide.

            “Trust me, it was fuckin’ awesome,” he tells Jimmy, sitting up and tugging Novak to him. “A plus. But now it’s your turn,” he murmurs as he kisses Jimmy thoroughly, reaching down to his still-hard dick.

             “No, it’s fine, I don’t want one,” Jimmy says. Dean pulls back at that, thinking he hadn’t heard correctly because . . . _what_?

             “You’re . . . turning down a blowjob?” Dean asks dubiously.

             Jimmy just shrugs. “I’ve had blowjobs before, but I’ve never cared for them. They’re impersonal.” Dean’s not sure if he follows that logic, but he nods anyway. “But with you . . . there’s something else I can have.”

            “Name it.”

            “Okay,” Jimmy huffs out. “Um, I –” He licks his lips nervously. “If you go slow, I think I can take it.” He takes Dean’s hand and brings it lower than his crotch, right to his hole. . . .

           “Woah, woah. Hold up, Jimmy, I . . . I don’t have any lube on me. It’s all back in my room,” Dean admits, cursing himself for not being more prepared.

            “Um, I take it that’s something essential?”

            “It is if you don’t want it to hurt like a motherfucker,” Dean states firmly. When Jimmy frowns, dejected, Dean takes his chin in hand, nuzzling his cheek. “Relax, Jimmy,” he whispers, biting at the bolt of his jaw. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.” He bites into the flesh of Jimmy’s neck, sucking to pull the blood to the surface. “Let me take care of you. I’ll make it _so_ good.”

            Jimmy melts into Dean, moans low and needy. One hand buries itself into Dean’s short hair, holding tight. “Dean, please. I’ve been surrounded by angel for so long, a comet is nothing but icy fire,” Jimmy babbles incoherently. “I need warmth, I need touch, I need _you_!”

            Dean surges forward, capturing Jimmy’s mouth once more. He puts everything he knows into the kiss until Jimmy’s panting for him again, rocking forward so his erection prods Dean in the stomach. Once he’s sure Jimmy’s ready, he gently pushes him onto his back, lines their cocks up, and grinds down.

            Jimmy mewls at the contact, wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist and quickly matching Dean’s rhythm. It’s even better than it was the first time: their cocks are wet with precome, sliding alongside each other with just enough friction to be absolutely delicious. In no time at all they're going at it like a couple of teenagers, fucking-in-all-but-deed on the bed. Beads of sweat fall from Dean’s forehead onto Jimmy’s overheated skin, flushed red with arousal. _So goddamn pretty_. They aren’t even kissing anymore, just panting into each other’s mouth, sharing breaths.

            Suddenly, Jimmy takes his hand from where it’s been carding through Dean’s hair and spits into it. Without any prompting from Dean, he reaches down between their sweat-slicked bodies and wraps his large, long-fingered hand around both their dicks, giving a hearty squeeze.

            Dean chuckles. “Clever Jimmy,” he praises, pistoning his hips faster. With the aid of Jimmy’s hand, the pressure has increased tenfold, and God, it’s been years since Dean has rubbed dicks like this with another dude, but it’s still as fantastic as he remembers. Soon Dean is moaning without pause, and he’d be a bit embarrassed at how far he’s really letting himself go, if not for Jimmy grunting right along with him.

           “Bet Castiel never got you like this, the poor bastard,” Jimmy says, way too smug as he licks the shell of Dean’s ear. Another glop of precome dribbles out of Dean’s dick at his words. “I finally beat him at something.”

            “Just for you,” Dean agrees, panting, clutching Jimmy to him as tight as he can as he fucks frantically.

            “One last thing,” he pants below Dean, and Dean can’t understand how the guy can even form complete sentences at a time like this, let alone make demands. “You call me by Cas’s name, and I’ll stop.”

            “You’re a very mean man,” Dean wheezes above Jimmy. “You’ll pay for that.”

            Judging by Jimmy’s increasingly erratic movements, he's close. But shit, so is Dean. Time to play dirty. Dean takes the pointer finger of his right hand, making sure to get it nice and slick with his saliva. Without breaking stride, Dean slips his hands behind Jimmy to grab his pert ass, hard enough to possibly bruise the pale flesh. Then, staring into Jimmy’s lust-clouded eyes as he does, Dean trails his wet finger down to the furled muscle of Jimmy’s hole, brushing against it and testing for resistance.

            “D-dean?” Jimmy manages, just before Dean smirks drunkenly at him and slips his finger into the tight, dry heat, just barely to the first knuckle.

            The response is instantaneous. Eyes squeezed shut, Jimmy arches forward with a keening cry, burying his face into the nook of Dean’s neck. Dean can feel when Jimmy’s cock jerks next to his, spurting hot come onto Dean’s navel and chest. Dean mindlessly fucks faster, his own dick brushing Jimmy’s still dribbling one, but it’s not until Jimmy’s thumb brushes over Dean’s own cockhead that Dean reaches his own completion, harshly growling “ _Jimmy!”_ as a lightning bolt of searing pleasure races down his spine, his cock erupting in Jimmy’s warm palm and adding its own come to the mix.

            They come down together slowly, Dean slumping forward so that he can press his sweaty forehead to Jimmy’s, breathe in the musky tang of their activities. The proceeding quiet is tranquil, mellow, punctuated only by their unsteady breathing and calming hearts. For one moment, he selfishly lets himself believe that he’s here in this bed with Castiel, that this was their first of soon-to-be-many, that when Dean wakes up Cas will still be there.

             “Dean? Are you . . . Can you open your eyes?” It’s Jimmy, voice small and hesitant. Dean, who hadn't even realized he’d closed his eyes, squeezes them tighter. He doesn’t want to look at Jimmy’s face and see the regret or disgust or what-the-fuck-ever he knows will be there now that Novak realizes what a fuck-up he’s made. “Please, Dean, look at me.” Dean feel a palm on his cheek, a thumb brushing the line of his cheekbone. “Dean. . .”

              Exhaling warily, Dean opens his eyes, staring down at a very debauched-looking Novak, stubble burn and hickies all up and down his neck, hair unsalvageable. Dean would definitely be enjoying the sight if his stomach wasn't squirming with guilt.

              “Where’d you go just now?” Jimmy whispers softly, frank and intense.

              “Nowhere,” Dean lies, licking his lips. “So . . . you’re not running away yet . . .”

              “No,” Jimmy says firmly. “Definitely not.” His face suddenly slpits into a grin. “I was actually hoping if I stuck around long enough, you’d treat me to a second performance.” He trails his hand along Dean’s collarbone. “You know what, Dean? I think you like to make everyone think you’re a big bad hunter, but really you’re just a softie. Hard outer shell, soft gooey center.”

              Dean’s gut finally unclenches with the wave of relief, and he leans forward to gently kiss Jimmy’s nose. For the moment, he lets himself get away with being a sap. “Only for nerdy dudes like you.” _Wings or not,_ he adds to himself.

              With a sigh, Dean finally rolls off of Jimmy, because if he’d stayed any longer, he would have definitely fallen asleep on top of the poor guy. “Give me an hour, Jimbo, then we’ll go for round two.”

              Sweaty and covered in come, they lay slumped next to each other, sharing in the lazy bliss of shared orgasm, their shoulders touching and their hands entwining together seemingly of their own accord. Suddenly, a post-coital nap sounds like just the ticket.

              “Hey, Dean?” Jimmy asks suddenly, curling up closer to Dean, resting his check above Dean’s heart.

              Dean grunts, still gathering up his brain calls from where they spilled out of his ears.

              “Did the archangel Gabriel _really_ turn your brother into a _car_?”

              Dean guffaws, dipping his head to nose at Jimmy’s disheveled hair. “Yeah, that midget angel could be such a dick. There’s no way he told the Virgin Mary she was preggers.”

              Jimmy scoffs like he doesn’t quite believe it, but he burrows closer all the same, tucking his head under Dean’s chin and soaking up the human contact. “Hmm. Maybe I'll get the chance to see some of the crazy stuff if I stick with you guys." He yawns. "Becoming a hunter . . . doesn’t sound so bad.”

              With an armful of warm Novak, Dean lets his eyes slip closed, and he’s just beginning to feel the enticing tendrils of sleep pull him under when he’s roughly shaken by his shoulder.

              “Dean . . .”

              Dean elects to ignore him, but then Jimmy shines a flashlight or something at Dean’s face, so bright he can see it through his eyelids. “Aw, come on, man! Just give me few more minutes –”

             “No, Dean! Something’s wrong!” The panic in Jimmy’s voice rings out like nails on a chalkboard. “Help!”

            All the Oxycontin-induced pleasure floating in his system evaporates in an instant as Dean snaps to attention, his upper torso jackknifing up in instinct, his muscles taut for a fight. It takes no time for Dean to realize what has Jimmy spooked, but he still can’t make sense of what he’s seeing, even as he furiously blinks to rid himself of the dark spots dancing before his eyes.

            Jimmy’s _glowing_ , a golden radiance emanating from his skin, like he’s swallowed a million light bulbs. The light pulses, waxing and waning in intensity, but undoubtedly getting stronger with each successive build. For one heart-choking moment, Dean is absolutely sure he’s about to see Jimmy explode like a supernova, his eyes burned out until nothing is left but twin black holes, just like Kevin. . . .   

            But when Dean’s hand lashes out in what might be a futile attempt to pull Jimmy to safety, it goes right through his arm as though Jimmy is nothing more than a ghost.

            _A ghost . . ._ Dean realizes. Just like when Dean and Sam burned Bobby’s flask and watched the grizzled hunter melt into the same golden light, finally passing on.

            But . . . why now?

            “Dean, what’s happening to me? Is it the angels?” Jimmy’s voice hitches in barely suppressed terror, edging into hysterical.

            Even though they can’t touch, Dean cups one hand along the edge of Jimmy’s translucent cheek. His palm sparks with static electricity and the hair on his arm is standing straight up. “Jimmy, close your eyes.”

            “Wh-what? Why?” Tears collect at the corners of Jimmy’s too-blue eyes, the glow burnishing them to drops of molten gold.

            “Shhh, don’t be scared,” he whispers. “You have to trust me, Jimmy. Just close your eyes and think of Claire and Amelia. Think of your happiest memory with them. When you open your eyes, you’ll be there with them. I promise, babe.”

            “. . . Family dinner,” Jimmy murmurs after a moment's hesitance. “Every night, holding hands.”

            “Yeah, that’s good, Jimmy, focus on that.”

            Finally, Jimmy closes his eyes. The glow is so bright now that Dean can barely see Jimmy below his bare shoulders, has to squint just to see his face. There’s a dull roar in his ears now, like the rush of the ocean tide, and the lights are flickering above them with the energy surge.

            “You’re going home, Jimmy,” Dean whispers, so close that his lips are prickling with the static electricity coming off of Jimmy.

            “Dean . . .” Jimmy reaches forward blindly to press a hand that Dean can’t feel to his chest. “ _Thank you._ ”

            The light suddenly flares so brightly that Dean is forced to turn away and shelter his eyes. There’s a long moment of searing light that presses against his eyelids – then nothing.

            When Dean turns back, blinking past the after-images that seem plastered to his eyes, he finds himself alone on the bed, the pillow next to his still carrying the imprint of Jimmy’s head.

            Jimmy’s untouched dinner remains at the desk where Dean left it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you guys this was kinda cracky.


	4. Clone Wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So . . . it’s sex that fixes the curse?” Dean asks in blatant disbelief. He snorts. “What idiot came up with that? Seriously, what a pointless amulet.”

            “Holy shit,” Dean whispers to no one, eyes still bugging out of his head. Untangling his legs from the twisted sheets, he scrambles out of the thoroughly rumpled bed, still naked, narrowly missing the forgotten laptop as his feet hit the cold floor. He looks around, and yeah, Jimmy’s suit is gone as well, shoes and all. All that’s left is the stink of sex permeating the air.

 _He’s gone._  

            The sigh that escapes him is more wistful than anything. Even though Dean tells himself he should be happy that Jimmy’s soul has been returned to Heaven where it belongs, where he can be _happy_ and at peace, a dull ache gnaws inside of him. _Always with the adios._

            It’s as he’s staring sullenly around the room that the gravity of the situation eventually dawns on him. _If Jimmy’s gone, then maybe . . ._ Dean slaps a hand to his forehead, berating himself for being so slow on the uptake. “Ah, fuck. The clones!”

            Leaping into action, Dean stumbles around the room, collecting his clothes from where they’d been strewn haphazardly around the floor. However, both his shirt and undershirt prove elusive – Where the hell did Jimmy toss them? The fifth dimension? He’s got his boxers and unbuttoned jacket on, and one leg shoved in his jeans when he decides, fuck it, anyone still up at this ungodly hour is just going to have to deal with getting an eyeful of Winchester bod.

            Maybe he’ll run into Cas and . . . _No, shut up,_ he tells his twitching dick sternly. _You’ve already gotten some tonight. No need to push your luck, you hussy._

Dean ignores the goosebumps that break out along his bare chest as he finally scrambles out into the cool hall, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He only spares a second to make up his mind before he’s heading back to the library. If Sam has found and performed a counter-spell to send all the clones back, Dean’s banking on him still being there. _Fucker could have warned me first._

            Sure enough, when he arrives at the library, the lights are still on and Sam is right where Dean left him, surrounded by stacks of musty-old books and the now dark-screened computer. Except . . . Sam’s _asleep,_ his face slumped into his propped-up fist, a fine line of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth.

            The air is absent of the pungent odors indicative of burning ingredients, no sigils are marked around the table, no altar assembled, nothing to suggest Sam’s had to perform some elaborate spell. Maybe all he had to do was recite a few lines in Latin . . . and then, what, promptly passed out from exhaustion?

            “Sam.” Dean shakes his brother roughly by the shoulder. “Hey, Sammy. Wake up, man.”

            With an almighty snorting snore that sounds like a chainsaw revving up, Sam startles awake, flailing his hand to push Dean away, nearly giving Dean a black eye before he reels back in time. Sam’s blinking sand-encrusted eyes when he finally settles down and focuses on Dean. “D-Dean?” he yawns, wiping away the spittle with the back of his hand. “What . . . what time is it?”

            “Never mind that, what did you do?” Dean demands urgently.

            “What? Nothing!” Sam defends automatically. “Um . . . exactly what is it I didn’t do?”

            “The Cas clones, Sam! How’d you do it? Where did you send ‘em?”

            “What do you mean, what’d I do with them?” Sam fires back. “I haven’t found anything yet.” He waves a frustrated hand over the lopsided piles of books and disarray of pages covered in Sam’s tidy scrawl.

            “I . . . what?” Dean says dumbly, staring hard at Sam’s guileless face. He and his brother might not always be honest with each other, especially recently, but it’s clear from Sam’s nonplussed expression he has no idea that Jimmy has flown the coop.

             “Um, Dean?” Sam pipes up suddenly.

            “What, Sam?” Dean responds distractedly, mind still spinning.

            “You, uh, have a little somethin’ . . .” Eyes adverted, Sam gestures at his own midriff, face blushing like a boiled lobster and generally looking as uncomfortable and embarrassed as a person can get.

            Making an impatient sound, Dean looks down at his bare stomach. “What’re you . . . Oh.”

            In his haste to get to Sam, Dean might have possibly forgotten to wipe off the dried jizz splattered on his abdomen. “Erm, you have a rag handy?”

            “Eww, gross, Dean!” Sam bitches, wrinkling his nose while Dean rubs the come off as best he can. “Don’t you dare touch me with that hand!”

            “Settle down, Samantha,” Dean drawls as he pulls back his hand. “Don’t get prissy with me just 'cause I’m the only one getting laid around h–”

            Dean cuts off abruptly when he realizes his verbal slipup, but too little too late.

            “I’m pretty sure your hand doesn’t count as actual sex, Dean,” Sam says in his best condescending tone, smirking like he thinks he’s oh so fucking clever. But then he pauses, his eyes narrowing suspiciously on Dean and his sheepish expression. Dean can see it on Sam’s face the precise moment it clicks. “Oh God, you didn’t.”

            “Erm . . .” is Dean’s brilliant defense, hardly enough to hold up in the court of Clandestine Sexual Escapades.

            Dean is expecting a heated lecture, a freakout, for his little brother to toss a disgusted and disappointed look his way, like he doesn’t even recognize him anymore. That same look Dean would catch John shooting his way before Dean learned not to let his gaze linger on guys any longer than strictly necessary. What he is definitely _not_ expecting is for Sam’s face to suddenly split into a wide, ostentatiously _smug_ grin. “Congrats, man. It’s about time you two pulled your heads out of your asses. Now, be truthful with me, ‘cause this is important and I have a bet going with Crowley, who made the first move: you or Cas?”

            “ _Wh-what?!_ ” Dean squawks. “That’s not – We didn’t – He doesn’t – _It wasn’t Cas!_ ”

            Sam’s brows pull together, like he thinks Dean is being stupid on purpose. “Dean, you don’t have to be ashamed, okay?” he says in that horribly sensitive voice that sets Dean's teeth on edge. “I suspected for a long time, and I think you should know that I’m cool with you two dating, and that there’s nothing wrong with being bisex-”

            Dean groans, ready for the ground to open up at his feet and swallow him whole. All of a sudden, a second tour of Hell doesn’t seem all that bad.

            “Holy – _crap_. Sam. Can we not do this right now?” Dean chokes out haltingly. “Pretty sure there are kind of more pressing matters at hand.”

            But like an overgrown, floppy-eared puppy with a bone, his nebby brother doesn’t look even remotely ready to give up. “Well, Jesus, Dean, if it wasn’t Cas, then who . . . Oh God, Dean, tell me you didn’t.” Sam’s eyes get comically wide, and Dean’s seriously concerned they’re about to pop out of their sockets and roll across the table. “It wasn’t that creep, Mischa, was it? Please tell me you didn’t fuck Mischa.”

            “No, it was not Mi- _sha_ ,” Dean shoots back heatedly. “It was . . .” He gulps. “It was Jimmy.”

            The resulting silence in the library is punctuating only by Dean’s wildly skipping pulse and the groan that escapes Sam’s throat as he slumps forward, slapping a palm to his face. “Christ, Dean, you man-whore. _Novak?!_ Out of nine possible candidates – one you told me participates in actual _orgies_ – and you go and bone the married Christian? It’s like you’re shaking your bare ass at God, daring Him to strike you down!”

            Now Dean’s the one rolling his eyes at Sam’s histrionics. “Okay, for one thing, two of those candidates are literal psychopaths, and another is several crayons short of the Crayola 64 box. It’s not exactly the Miss Universe pageant.” _Although I wouldn’t mind seeing the swimsuit portion._

            “Really? That’s the point you’re begging to dispute?” Sam interrupts, side-eying him incredulously.

            “And _secondly_ ,” Dean says, steamrolling over his brother, “I . . .” Dean pauses, grasping for words, but all the right ones slip away. “It’s not what you’re thinking, dude. I didn’t plan it. He . . . we just . . .” Dean raises his hands in a hopeless gesture, hopes it conveys the mess of feelings he’s still sorting through. Maybe his and Jimmy’s tryst hadn’t been something out of a Hallmark movie, but there had been something . . . intimate about it, something that made it more than just two people working off the edge to exchange mutual pleasure.

            Against his better judgment, it had made Dean think that if life had been different, if Dean hadn’t grown up in the hunter life and Jimmy had met him instead of Amelia, if neither men had been marked by Heaven, maybe he and Jimmy could have been something. . . .

            Dean inwardly groans. _Or maybe I’m getting maudlin in my old age._

            Perhaps Sam can see something on Dean’s face, or is reading between the lines and is hearing what Dean can’t say, but the judgment dissipates from his face and his eyes soften.

            “What are you going to do when you take him home to Amelia tomorrow?” Sam asks, not unkindly, like he thinks Dean is going to burst into tears or something equally appalling if Jimmy leaves. Which he didn’t, thank you very much.

            “Change of plans, Sammy. It’s no longer an issue anymore,” Dean replies shortly. “Jimmy’s gone. Vamoosed.”

            _That_ gets Sam’s attention, the giant sasquatch bolting upright in his chair so quickly that he knocks it over. He ignores it, focusing wild eyes on Dean. “What the hell do you mean, _gone_? What – You mean Novak gave you the slip?”

            “No, more like he pulled a Swayze.” At Sam’s blank look, he explains, “Y’know how at the end of _Ghost,_ Swayze ascends to Heaven in a sparkling gold cloud of cheesy 90’s special effects, it was kinda like that . . .” Dean purses his lips, thinks over what just came out of his mouth. “I swear it’s a lot less gay than it sounds.”

            Sam just smirks and shakes his head. “Whatever, _Demi_. I’m pretty sure that ship has already sailed.”

            “Shut it, smartass,” Dean retorts gruffly, still hyper-aware of the flush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “Anyway, back to the point of all this insanity: you absolutely sure none of this is your doing, Sam?”

            Plopping his ass back in his chair, Sam replies wearily, “Yeah, Dean, I’m sure. I fell asleep shortly after you left to go see Jimmy, but I hit a dead-end hours ago. Whatever happened to him, it sure as hell wasn’t from any spell of my doing.”

            “Maybe the amulet’s curse is just naturally wearing off then?” Dean suggests hopefully. “Do you think any of the other doppelgangers were sent home?”

            “Only one way to find out,” Sam says with a pointed look at Dean.

            It only takes a few seconds for Dean to catch on, and even then he feels the nagging catch of hesitance. With an exasperated huff and exaggerated movements, Dean bows his head forward and clasps his hands, clearing his throat heartily. It’s been so long since he’s prayed to Castiel this way, out in the open and not in the privacy of his own room, or those few times when it was just him and his Baby on the open road. It’s been even longer since Dean had stopped calling Cas to sweep in to play _deus ex machina_ and started praying . . . because he needed someone – he needed _Cas –_ to hear him. He can vaguely remember the days when praying to Cas was an awkward affair, making him feel like an idiot talking to nothing, even though the angel answered his call more times than not. After all those desperate nights in Purgatory, however, prayer slowly transitioned into something else, something warm and private, something just for him and Cas. Nowadays, it doesn’t seem like Cas, bereft of his grace, is even receiving the little prayers he still sends out – it’s a habit Dean has yet to break, he’ll still send a fleeting thought towards Cas every now and then, whenever he sees something on TV he thinks Cas would like, needs to bitch about how he got monster gunk on his nice suit, wants to share in the prank he pulled on Sam that had his brother itching for a week – before he remembers he really is thinking at no one. With that invisible link between him and Cas cut, the distance between them seems greater than ever when Cas leaves, as he’s always bound to do. Even during those wretched few months when a brain-washed Cas had been ignoring Dean’s prayers and Dean had thought he’d been praying to a possible dead man, he’s never been lonelier.

            But now there’s at least one angel in the bunker fully tuned into Dean Winchester radio.

            “Oh Castiel,” Dean intones gruffly, eyes closed in concentration, “holy feather duster of the deadbeat Lord – or whoever gets this message, I don’t particularly care . . . Come on down!”

            Ten seconds of uninterrupted silence pass by. Dean peaks one eye open, sees no sign of a trenchcoated angel, only the grimace on Sam’s face. “That’s the best you’ve got?” his brother asks, tone snippy.

            “Hey, if you think you can do it better, Mother Teresa, be my guest,” Dean taunts.

            “That would be unnecessary,” a grave voice informs directly from behind Dean. Sure enough, when Dean looks over his shoulder, there Angel Castiel stands, face mildly disapproving and shoulders so ramrod-straight he looks like he’s been constipated since before the dinosaurs roamed. But damn, his sex-hair game is strong. “As an abomination, it is unlikely that I would have answered your brother’s prayers anyway.”

            “Gee, thanks, Cas,” Sam mutters petulantly under his breath. Dean shoots him a sympathetic glance – apparently his brother and his angel have been ‘bonding’ during Dean’s absence (over what, Dean has no idea, but given how Cas’s nerdiness is surpassed only by Sam’s, they probably spent their time geeking over quantum physics or the rule of the Aztec Empire or something equally embarrassing that Dean wants no part of). It probably sucks going back to being ‘the boy with the demon blood.’

             “Hey, knock it off with the hell spawn crap,” Dean cuts in, deciding to take pity on Sam. “Your ledger isn’t exactly squeaky-clean either, Cas. Er, well, I mean it won’t be.”

            That steely gaze latches onto him, and Dean fights the futile urge to cross his arms defensively, like that would help him somehow escape Castiel’s Superman vision. Dean really wishes he’d taken those extra ten seconds to find his shirt, or at the very least button up the jacket. When those blue eyes flicker to Dean’s covered right forearm, narrowing like he can see past the fabric, Dean just barely stifles a flinch. For the briefest moment, confusion flickers across Castiel’s face, but for whatever reason, he chooses not to grill Dean on the Mark, and Dean breathes a little easier.

            “Indeed,” is the enigmatic response Dean receives in reply, giving nothing of the angel’s feelings away.  Those calculating electric-blue eyes flash up to meet his, assessing Dean from the atomic structure up, and Dean can feel himself squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest, presenting the façade of a man with nothing to hide. Instead of volleying back Dean’s hostile energy, Castiel tilts his head to the side in the familiar, bird-like gesture, staring at Dean with an inquisitive air, and Dean can’t shake the feeling he’s being mentally compared to the Dean of 2008. Dean glares right back, nervously licking his upper lip, a movement Castiel’s hawk-like gaze tracks intently. . . .  

            None-too-subtly, Sam clears his throat, and Dean can hear him faintly mutter, “ _I thought you guys had moved past the spontaneous eye-sex_.” At a louder volume, he says, “Castiel, did you, um, see anything weird tonight? Specifically within the last hour or so?”

            A single glossy black eyebrow is quirked. “I trust that I can correctly infer you are not referring to the matter of Dean fornicating with my vessel?”

            “ _YOU WERE WATCHING_?!” Dean squawks indignantly while Sam waves his hands frantically, shouting, “Nononono, not that! Argh, God, now it’s in my _head_!”

            Castiel simply frowns, unable to understand why the silly little humans are working themselves up over a trivial thing like voyeurism. “I did not ‘watch,’” Castiel corrects snippily, and Dean half-expects him to bust out the finger quotes, but figures that trick is still beyond the angel’s limited scope of human gestures. “I merely picked up on the resulting ripples Dean’s soul produced upon climax, as well the ascension of James Novak’s soul to Paradise, which I assume is your reason for summoning me.”

            Something in Dean’s gut loosens at Cas’s words, whatever unease he’d felt over Jimmy’s departure lessening. “Good. That’s . . . that’s good,” Dean sighs in relief. “At least Jimmy’s escaped this mess.” But as he mulls over Castiel's words, he frowns. “So it was just Jimmy, then? No one else?”

            “No,” the angel answers firmly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Obviously.” 

            Finally Sam poses the question that has been running on loop in Dean’s head for the past fifteen minutes. “But _why?_ Certainly you’re not suggesting that having sex with Dean had anything to do with it?” Sam demands incredulously.

            “Yeah, it was only third base,” Dean pipes up. “I mean, you’d think I’d need a little more Winchester sex magic for that.”

            “Shut the hell up, Dean,” Sam barks out testily.

            Ignoring the brothers’ bickering, Angel Castiel tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “As improbable as it seems, I cannot see any other stimuli that could have triggered Jimmy’s departure. The times of the copulation and the event are too close together to be a coincidence.” 

            “So . . . it’s _sex_ that fixes the curse?” Dean asks in blatant disbelief. He snorts. “What _idiot_ came up with that? Seriously, what a pointless amulet.”

            Scratching at back of his head, Sam doubtfully says, “I don’t know, guys, I feel like there’s got to be more to it than just Dean getting his dick wet. The notes the Men of Letters left behind specifically said it was for meditation purposes, connecting id, ego, and superego. Maybe Cas being a former angel fucked it up somehow, I don’t know . . . And anyways, Dean, why are you complaining? Isn’t this like a wet dream come true for you?”

            Dean scowls at Sam, already 100% done with the cracks about him being in love with Cas. Which, yes, he fully acknowledges he kinda sorta might possibly be. Doesn’t mean he ever wanted Sam to know (for precisely this reason).

            But it does give him an idea.

            Cocking his hip to the side just right, Dean looks over at Castiel, smirking as he cranks up the charm full blast. “Hey. How you doin’?”

            The last thing he sees is Castiel’s scandalized expression before he disappears in a blast of air that sends all of Sam’s carefully composed notes flying.

            “We’re doomed,” Dean says with casual finality as he turns back to his brother.

            “Maybe you should have bought him a drink first,” Sam says drolly as he scrambles to collect his pages.

            Dean scowls. _Don’t you think I haven’t tried that?_ he wants to snap. “Whatever. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And Cas said he doesn’t remember any of this actually happening to him, so . . . maybe they’ll all forget after going back?” he suggests tentatively. It probably wouldn’t do well for Castiel and Dean’s early relationship to be soured by the fact that Cas was perved on by Dean’s future self.

            “Possible,” Sam hums, like he’s not really paying attention. “Dean, what are we going to do tomorrow when everyone notices Jimmy’s missing?”

            Nonchalantly, Dean shrugs. “Lie, what else? Everyone saw me promise to take him back to the Novaks earlier. I’ll just . . . I dunno, say we got lucky and found them just outside of Kansas, in some podunk town in Missouri. We left late last night, after everyone had gone to bed, decided Novak could stay – no, not stay, just spend a few days saying goodbye, and that I’ll bring him back when we find a ‘cure.’ That should buy us some time.”

            “That’s a pretty flimsy lie, Dean, and won’t hold its weight for long once the rest of the doppelgangers get suspicious,” Sam says dismissively, setting his notes back on the table. “Although,” he adds slowly, his long hair hiding his expression, and Dean’s attention is attuned to the harder, darker edge his brother’s voice gains, “I suppose lying is second-nature to you nowadays, so maybe you’ll get them to believe anything.”

            His smile slipping right off his face, the snide comment hits Dean like a sucker-punch and leaves him reeling, more than a little bewildered, hardly believing Sam fucking went there. There’s a distant part of him that knows he deserves it, deserves every insult and reproach in the book after letting Gadreel into their hen house, but fuck it, he’s not going to apologize for saving Sam’s life.

            Dean huffs, incredulous. “Well, that was quick,” he says, voice dripping sarcasm. “Only bothering to play nice in front of the kids now, huh?” When Sam doesn’t respond, Dean bites out angrily, “We were fine five minutes ago, Sam, what the hell is your problem now?”

          Not even bothering to look at him anymore, Sam just shrugs, fiddling with the laptop to power it down. "Nothing's changed between us, Dean. You still lied to me, and that'll still be true when this is all over. All this is just strictly work for me."

           Dean scoffs. “Wow, Sam, tell me how you really feel,” he mutters as he turns on his heel and makes for the exit, anger burning red-hot up the back of his throat, accompanied by the prickling of self-hatred, guilt, and shame.

            “Whatever. Just make sure you cover up those hickies,” his brother calls after him derisively. Dean just barely squashes the motion to slap a hand to his neck, suddenly assailed by the sensory memory of Jimmy’s hot little mouth nipping and sucking at the skin, determined to leave any kind of mark on Dean, even an impermanent one, so long as it was his. Fuck, how the hell is he going to hide them tomorrow, why hadn’t he just said _no_?

            _Because you’d wanted it so badly you were practically gagging for it,_ his conscious supplies unhelpfully.

_Thanks, conscious._

            For lack of anything better to do, Dean staggers back in the direction of his own room, rubbing circles in his pounding temple. Goddammit, it’s like someone took an icepick to his skull. Hopefully a little shut-eye will help, although Dean’s already dreading waking up in the morning, unprepared to deal with all the problems that will have festered overnight.

            Fuck, but of all the insane things to happen in his life, this really takes the cake. Usually a good ol’-fashioned salt-n-burn does the trick in getting rid of ghosts. He doubts any hunter has ever had to fuck them away.

            The pain in his skull spiking, Dean groans in abject frustration. _This is ridiculous. Fuck my life, fuck my life – Fuck. My. Life._

            So deep in his own worries he’s practically drowning in them, Dean doesn’t notice the shadow-masked figure lounging at the end of the hallway, just outside Dean’s own bedroom, until he hears the raspy growl slip through the darkness like liquid smoke.

            “Shouldn’t all the good little hunters be tucked away in bed at this twilight hour?”

            Tilting his gaze up in mild surprise, Dean spots Future Cas leaning casually against the brick wall, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his ratty jeans. For a guy that took about an entire hour in the shower, hogging up all the hot water, Dean can’t help but wonder why Cas didn’t bother shaving, or even change into a new set of clothes. _The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess._

             “They are,” Dean agrees, twitching his lips in a faint smirk. “That’s why I’m still up.”

             “Ah. Touché.” Cas doesn’t say anything else, but the fallen angel’s gaze remains fixed on him, as though he expects Dean to carry on the conversation, even though it’s nearing the ass-crack of dawn.

             “So, uh . . .” Scratching the back of his calf with his other foot, Dean fumbles for something to say, feeling like it might be a touch rude to just start with, _Move your ass so I can get some sleep._ “What’s up, man?” he offers up lamely.

             Those chapped lips spread wide at Dean’s words, and Dean finds it particularly grating – he wasn’t trying to be funny and he’s too tired for Future Cas’s games. Unaware of Dean’s growing ire, Cas shrugs easily, the movement causing his dark bangs to fall in front of his face. There’s something distinctly cat-like about this version of Castiel, watchful and sly despite the lazy posture.

             “Nothing but these concrete skies,” he says eventually, voice slow like dripping molasses as his gaze flicks up to the ceiling. “Keeping us down here, warm and safe like a mother’s womb. Well, I assume like a mother’s womb, as I never actually had a mother. Never had much of a Father, neither.” High-pitched giggles bubble up from his throat, and it’s a very sardonic, un-Cas-like sound that has something inside of Dean recoiling.

              _He’s trashed_ , Dean realizes belatedly, rolling his eyes in exasperation. He takes a pointed sniff and wrinkles his nose. _Or wasted. Possibly some combination of the two._

“Yeah, that’s great, Cas,” he says wearily as he shuffles past the inebriated man to his bedroom. “Why don’t you tell me all about it in the morning?”

             He’s got his hand on the knob and one foot through the door when Cas replies quietly, in an incongruously soft whisper, “Much as I try, I don’t really _feel_ that warmth. It’s not something I can . . .” He huffs a sharp laugh. “Drink or inhale. No, it’s all about mind over matter, isn’t it? I can tell myself that I’ve escaped, yet I can’t . . . I can’t _quite_ shake the feeling that the Croats will swarm our perimeters and gobble us up in our beds.”

             Dean pauses, and fuck, if he was smart he would just pretend he didn’t hear that, go to sleep and deal with it in the morning. Of course, that’s exactly what he _doesn’t_ do.

             Breath escaping in a heavy sigh, he releases the door knob. “You saying you can’t sleep?”

            Scratching absently at his scruff-covered cheek, Cas responds, “It’s really quite fascinating how living in the Apocalypse can derail one’s sleep schedule. Haven’t gotten more than a few hours every night for years. Now I have more time on my hands than I know what to do with.” He chuckles to himself. “I guess you could say I’m a rich man.”

            “Yeah, I bet,” Dean murmurs distractedly, furtively eyeing Cas up and down. Despite the dark, Dean can easily make out the purple shadows and heavy bags swelling beneath his eyes. A pang of sympathy stirs in Dean’s chest. “You look like shit, Cas.”

            “Your honesty is always appreciated, Dean,” he says, although Dean can’t tell whether he’s being flippant or not.

            “The booze didn’t help at all? You know I can’t give you more,” he says gruffly, tone more apologetic than it should be, but he can’t deal with Cas OD-ing or getting alcohol poisoning on his watch when he already has so much on his plate.

            Raising his eyebrows, Cas slips Dean a side-eyed smirk. “I use Xanax for _sleeping_ , Dean,” he says mockingly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The bourbon, though appreciated, was just to take the edge off. For future reference, I prefer sipping from the sweet waters of the green fairy.”

            Leaning his hip on the wall beside Cas, Dean just barely stops himself from making a face in disgust. “Yeah, well, tough luck, Oscar Wilde, we’re fresh out of battery acid that looks like lime Kool-Aid.”

            Cas shrugs, his small smile wrinkling his nose. “Still, it’s more than I expected. Back in the early days of the big A, I remember how you would – well, not you _you,_ other-you – he’d purposely pour all the booze down the drain on days when I got really bad,” he reminisces, hazy eyes clouding over. “Thought leaving me high ‘n’ dry would, I don’t know, _discourage_ me from going on another bender. Obviously, it didn’t . . . Of course, eventually he just stopped caring, let me do my own thing. So I’d say this one bottle is a definite improvement, wouldn’t you, Dean?”

            An acidic taste wells at the back of Dean’s tongue at the mere mention of his parallel universe self, that broken son of a bitch who would throw his friends under the bus, wrapping it under the guise of getting the job done. The very man who sent this Cas to his death without a backwards glance. Not for the first time, Dean is fervently grateful that unlike poor Jimmy, this Cas was plucked out of his time before his untimely demise, hopefully sparing him the heavy burden of knowing Dean betrayed him at the very end.

            Of course, it begs the question, when the time arrives . . . will Dean be able to send Cas back to that alternate 2014? To look into his bitterly weary eyes and lie, just as his alternate self did?

            His stomach folds in on itself at the very thought, and oh, God, he’s going to be sick. Desperate to switch topics, Dean blurts out, “How you settling in, Cas? I . . . I mean, I know you and angel-you aren’t exactly about to buddy-up and go on late-night bar crawls, but . . .”

             Dean is cut off when Cas throws his head back, snickering like a demented hyena. “Apropos choice of words. But, no, you’re right. He and I – because there most certainly is no I and I – are nothing more than two distant acquaintances with nothing left to say to each other.” Cas looks down at his bare feet as he answers, wiggling his toes. “Although I must say it’s gratifying to learn that all roads do indeed lead to nowhere. So I suppose the joke’s on him.”

            The backhanded remarks smarts, and Dean has the urge to bite out that at least the real Castiel isn’t balls-deep in booze, drugs, and ‘decadence’ this time around, but for once Dean decides to play nice and keep his opinions to himself.

            “To be fair, though, he doesn’t creep me out as much as your brother does,” Future Cas interjects as he begins digging through his jeans pockets, absently looking for something.

            “What? What’s wrong with, Sam?” Dean demands, voice containing a note of warning. Despite the uneasy state of affairs between him and Sam, the instinct to protect his brother hasn’t switched off. “Don’t tell me you buy into that abomination crap like Feathers does.”  

            “Oh, nothing like that,” the fallen angel answers placidly. “Just strange, I suppose - the last time I saw Sam Winchester was years and years ago. If I recall correctly, he was a little bit ‘wide-eyed believer’ for my tastes. Headstrong, too, belligerent - had odd choices in bedfellows. Didn't think much of him when we first met, but looking back, it's almost uncanny how similar our falls from grace were, even if his wasn't quite so literal." But then a shadow falls over Cas’s gaunt face, making the scruffy man appear more sober than Dean has witnessed yet. “Next time I caught a glimpse of him, there wasn’t anything of Sam left, or at least, for his sake, I hope not . . .” And just like that, Future Cas’s mercurial mood shifts again, and he’s back to gazing at Dean with mischievous eyes. He shows Dean his empty pockets. “This Sam seems like an okay guy. Although given his penchant for taking away my smokes, are you sure he’s not still possessed by the devil?”

            Dean blinks. Then, unexpectedly, he snickers, the sound building underneath his ribcage until it bubbles over and Dean finds himself bending forward with his hands on his knees, bright laughter shaking his frame.

            From above him, he can hear Cas question dubiously, “Tickled your funny bone, have I?”

            “Nothing . . . It’s just . . .” Dean chuckles again, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he straightens up. “You’re still such a grumpy bastard,” he huffs, smiling.

            Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Cas flinch like he’d expected Dean to actually be openly mocking him, but then Dean glances back and Cas’s expression has smoothed out into a lop-side-smile. “I resent that!” he growls out playfully, affecting an air of faux offense. “Remember, I’m the fun one.”

            “I think what you mean to say is that you’re the one the cops parade around at school on ‘Don’t Do Drugs Day,’ Spicoli,” he quips back, and yeah, Dean feels a spark of surprise when he realizes he’s casually teasing ( _flirting?_ ) with this stoner version of Cas. It’s so much different than the last time – he can vividly recall in screaming surround sound how uncomfortable this Cas has made him the first time they met. It was like he was looking into a mirror - a walking, talking, breathing reminder of how the tornado that is Dean Winchester will suck everyone near him into its grasp and drag them down into the dirt with him. Maybe he just feels better about the whole thing this time around because he now knows that this Cas was always destined to become this wraith of a man, to live in the universe of wrong choices.

            Dean inwardly grimaces; that sounded a lot harsher than he meant it to. 

            Apparently Dean is not the only one who has come to this realization. “So now that we’ve gotten past your reticence at my footloose and fancy-free lifestyle, care to clue me in on how you managed to rewrite the rule book?” Cas cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Did you say 'yes' to Michael?” he asks somberly, almost pityingly, like that’s exactly what he expected.

            Dean snorts. “Do I look like a slobbering vegetable to you? Hell no, I didn’t say ‘yes’ to Michael - Er, well, technically, yes, but that’s not how we did it.” He ducks his head, smiling faintly. “I found a loophole in Zachariah’s plans.  Instead of pushing Sam away, we patched things up. I’d be lying if I said it was easy, and . . . there were sacrifices.” Dean swallows heavily, trying hard to remind himself that even though the road to this point bad been arduous, it’s better than any alternative. “But we did it. We stopped the Apocalypse. Even the one your dick brother Raphael tried to start.”

            Cas grins at him, and Dean is caught off guard by the sincere _devotion_ shining out of those hazy eyes. “I never should have doubted you.”

            “Yeah, well . . .” Dean rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck, at a lost as to what to say to that. Nowadays, he certainly doesn’t feel like someone you can put your faith in, Sam's accusations still haunting him. Hopefully he can send Future Cas back before he learns the truth of what Dean has done.

            The conversation peters out from there, and Dean and his aching eyelids are more than ready to call it a night. Reaching out, Dean clasps Cas on his shoulder, more than a little unnerved at how bony it is, even slimmer than Jimmy’s. “Hey, how about in the morning I tell you all about how we beat the Devil, huh? Catch you up to speed?”

            “Serve me up some pancakes and coffee strong enough to curl your nose hairs and you’ve got yourself a deal,” Cas says, pushing off from the wall to stretch his arms up over his head, joints popping back into place, so that a strip of pale skin is revealed between the boundaries of his dirt-stained jeans and threadbare shirt. Dean frowns when he catches a glimpse of a scar riding down along Cas’s hipbone before descending into his pants. It must have been nasty, whatever it was, to leave the skin lumpy and discolored like that. Future Cas catches him staring, though he makes no comment, and Dean looks away guiltily, retreating for the safety of his room.

            "Night, Cas." Dean’s just pushing open his door when Cas interrupts him once more.

            “Dean . . .” Cas calls back to him, voice uncharacteristically uncertain as his head tips to the side, his gaze drifting from Dean’s face down to his midrift like he’s staring right into Dean’s soul despite his lack of grace. “I didn’t want to say anything untoward, but . . . there’s something different about you. Different from the 2009 version of you, yet . . . not quite like m-my Dean.”

            “Oh, yeah?” Dean replies uneasily. He thinks about his outburst with Crazy Cas earlier, the heated rage that had nearly lashed out at Jimmy, and he swears the Mark burns where it’s settled on his arm. “Is it a bad difference?”

            For the first time tonight, Cas’s eyes flicker away first. “Too soon to tell, I suppose.”

            It’s far from an encouraging response, but Dean has no idea how to confide in Cas the lengths he's gone in order to fix his wrongs. That the Mark of Cain is necessary. That it’s for Sam. For Kevin. But now is not the time for such grave talk.

            “It’s probably just old age, Cas,” Dean murmurs bracingly, swallowing the lie down. “I’m fine.”

            Cas’s eyes fall to half-mast, his lips tightening into a flat line. “ _You_ are.”

            Dean considers asking what he means, but Cas has already turned away, his bare fleet slapping against the floor as he disappears around the corner. He can’t be sure, but Dean thinks he hears Cas say, “ _Sleep tight, o fearful one.”_

           With a shake of his head, Dean retreats into his bedroom and closes the door behind him.

            It isn’t until Dean has kicked off his boots and face-planted into his pillow, not even bothering to shed his clothes, that he realizes Future Cas might have been slinking around Dean’s bedroom because he’d been waiting for _Dean_.

            He doesn’t know what to do with that thought, so he shoves it down along with the bubbling mixture of guilt and pity as he sinks down into the memory foam, welcoming the temporary oblivion of sleep.

            Dean falls asleep to thoughts of Jimmy moaning and swearing in his ear, writhing in his arms as they move in unison, but sometime during his slumber they turn into dreams of a deeper, grittier voice screaming his name in the throes of passion.

 

 

            Another day breaks, and Dean enjoys exactly 4.75 seconds of blissful ignorance upon awakening before the events of the previous day come crashing down on him with all the subtlety of Miley Cyrus’s wrecking ball. Letting loose a colorful and eclectic string of cusses that would do the US Navy proud, Dean eventually hobbles out of bed, aware of the achey pains radiating from his hips. He imagines that if he looks, he’ll find a purplely-bruise chain of hand prints encircling his lower waist.  

            It takes him about thirty minutes to relieve himself, hop in the shower, and change into a mostly-fresh pair of jeans and an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt, along with his green jacket (the sleeves are long enough to hide the Mark, and the collar covers Jimmy’s marks on his neck). After a moment's hesitation, he even grabs his machete from off the wall, sheathing in its holder tucked into the back of his jeans - just, you know . . . _in case_.

            Dean knows he’s dawdling, but he can’t help it. Not only is he going to have to go out there and lie to the clones about where Jimmy went, he’s going to have to lie to _Cas,_ the real Castiel. Just the thought has acid building up at the back of his throat.

            _It’s because I have no other choice,_ Dean tells himself sternly. _If I play this straight and by the book, Cas will never have to know._ In an unexpected turn of events, Dean hopes Sam will be proven right, and that lying this time will be a lot like riding a bicycle.

            Just before he makes to leave, Dean glances at the side drawer beside his bed. He takes a moment to make a half-assed decision, comes swiftly to the conclusion of _fuck it_ , and goes back to dig through the contents of the drawer. He makes a noise of success when he fishes out the nearly full box of condoms. “That'll do it,” he says as he slips one (or two) into his back pocket. With the way Dean thinks his day may be headed, better safe than sorry.

            He steps outside his room, locking the door behind him, to find the corridor completely deserted, free of angels and insomniac druggies. A look at his phone says that it’s just a little after ten in the morning, so Dean decides his safest bet is to head in towards the entrance, see if either Sam or Charlie is up yet. _Maybe one of them has found an alternative solution,_ he wishes without much hope.

            When Dean finally makes it past the library and into the War Room, he has to halt just outside of the entrance, wondering if maybe he was still dreaming.

            Cause if so, this is one really friggin’ weird dream.

            “Uh . . . what?”

            Sometime during the last several hours, someone has procured a woefully small Twister mat and spread it out across on the floor of the War Room, out of the way of the general flow of traffic. What’s truly amazing – and more than a little disturbing – is that five of the Castiels have managed to cram themselves on the board, limbs twisted and sprawled every which way. Standing a little off to the side, Angel Castiel watches the game with a furrowed expression, stiffly holding the game spinner vertically in his hands.

            “Good morning, Dean,” says Cas – is it his Cas? He thinks it is, unless Emmanuel has borrowed that weird, stripey-purple shirt of his – gazing calmly up at Dean, head upside down, from where he’s somehow managed to entangle himself under Misha (whose face is inches from Emmanuel’s crotch).

            “Cas, what . . . what the _hell_?”

            The fallen angel struggles to make a motion that might be a wave, but only succeeds in trembling in his unsteady position. “It was right hand on green, Dean,” he answers solemnly, like he’s just made a strategic move in battle. “There was no other way.”

            “Care to join us, Dean?” Future Cas asks just before Crazy Cas – who Dean has a sneaking suspicion is to blame for all this – bleats out, “Oh, oh, _please_ , Dean, please!”

            “Yeah, no. It’s too early for this shit . . .” Dean mutters as he skirts around the game, dodging Misha’s hand when it flails out to grab his ankle. He heads for where he spots Charlie and Sam sitting at the map table and watching the convoluted game with amused expressions.

            “Anyone wanna clue me in on why our base of operations is suddenly a Plucky Pennywhistle’s playroom?” Dean asks gruffly as he takes a seat next to Charlie, greedily taking note of the food set out along the counter. It’s a better spread than usual: plates of cheesy hash brown potatoes, crispy bacon and sausage, fucking _fruit_ , and . . . “Is that _quiche_?”

            “Yep. Kale, tomato, and Parmesan cheese. Homemade,” Charlie confirms, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl and popping it into her mouth. “Misha was a complete sweetie. He offered to cook if we went out and picked up some stuff. That’s when I picked up the Twister mat. I thought it would help take everyone's mind off things.” At Dean’s frown, she adds breezily, “Oh, they aren’t hurting anyone, Dean! Look, they’re getting along now . . . for the most part! You’ll thank me later. I mean, while the Hobbit Hole is amazing and all, you guys seriously need to invest in some better entertainment. You could _totally_ turn the shooting range into a laser tag room if you got the right equipment!”

            Dean pretends to consider it. “No.”

            Satisfied his point’s been made, he begins eagerly getting himself a plate of the potatoes and bacon, pointedly turning his nose up at the rabbit food. He hesitates for a moment before reluctantly spooning some of the quiche onto his plate because, hey, eggs are eggs, no matter what form they’re crammed into.

            When Dean settles back down, fork in hand, he notices the small brownish something at the other end of the table, nibbling on a pinkie-nail portion of hash brown. “Where did George even get a plate that small?” he asks, at this point completely unfazed that Crazy Cas’s pet cricket gets a seat at the breakfast table, considering the insect is the least of Dean’s problems. So long as he doesn’t directly touch any of Dean’s food, they’ll be a-okay.

            Back at the Twister mat, Angel Cas is having difficulty working the spinner: no wonder, since he keeps swiping the flat of his hand ineffectually across the cardboard. Judging by the growing, squinty-eyed scowl, Cas is probably mere seconds away from chucking the damn thing into outer space.

            “It helps if you lay it flat, Cas!” Dean calls out helpfully, shoveling potatoes into his mouth. “No – spinner-side up. Yeah, there you go. Just flick it gently, don’t go poking someone’s eye out.”

           “Infernal, demonic contraption . . . Left foot yellow,” Angel Castiel rumbles out. There is a shuffling of limbs as Cas and his clones scramble to obey the command, protesting grunts as toes and fingers are stepped on. And, wow – Misha is _bendy,_ half-folded in on himself in what seems like an effortless gesture. It kinda looks like he could suck his own cock if he tried . . .

           It’s at this point that Dean’s brain helpfully reminds him that, thanks to Jimmy, he now knows what each one of the men looks like naked. All of a sudden, breakfast is a lot more interesting.

           “ _Emmanuel, do you mind? You’re booty pants are in my face,”_ Future Cas grouses.

           Annndd that’s Dean’s cue to turn his attention to other matters, because popping a boner at breakfast is considered a social faux pas even by Winchester standards. Leaning furtively towards Charlie, he mutters softly under his breath, “Sam clue you in on, uh, last night’s discovery?”

           “You mean the part about your magic wee-wee sending Jimmy back to Heaven?” she smirks through a mouthful of quiche. Dean rolls his eyes at her, thinking that at least someone’s enjoying all this. “Yeah, he did.”

            For the first time this morning, Sam finally deigns to acknowledge Dean’s presence. “They’ve already noticed his absence," he says in an undertone, gaze flickering furtively to the Cas's, "I guess they were just waiting for you to show up and explain.”

           “You couldn’t have just told them yourself?” Dean asks irritably, pushing his eggs around his plate, more than a little miffed seeing as he was really hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with this crap first thing in the morning.

           “Not my job,” he hears Sam growl out sullenly.

            Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Charlie roll her eyes. “For fuck sakes,” she mutters.

            It’s only now that Dean wonders if Charlie has been caught up on the events of the past several months. The way she’s pursing her lips and side-eying Dean makes him think Sam had unloaded all the sordid details to her earlier.

             With an aggravated sigh, Dean turns his attention back to the doppelgangers. While a part of him picks up on the slight pang in his heart for Jimmy’s absence, the other half is already calculating his odds. He supposes he could always bride Future Cas with a bottle of Jack and some amphetamines in exchange for a quick blowjob in the bathroom, but he immediately shies away from the thought, revolted that he could ever consider the idea, however briefly.

            But . . . maybe he’s approaching this from the wrong angle. He's a good-looking son of a gun, if he says so himself, and he's made damn sure never to be slouch in the sack. Maybe if he starts thinking of himself in terms of _bait_. . . he shouldn't have too hard a time finding a doppelganger more than willing to engage in a little hanky panky. . . especially if he were to dangle himself in front of the one currently locked up in the unused (but more importantly private and secluded) bedroom. Dean hums thoughtfully to himself, reaching for an abandoned cup of coffee he spies on the counter as he mulls the idea over.

           “Dean!” Cas shouts out from where his arms have become entangled with Crazy Cas’s legs on the Twister board. “Don’t drink my coffee!”

            To which Dean insolently replies, “I don’t see your name on it.”

            Making sure Castiel can clearly see him, he put his lips to the rim and tips the mug back.

            There’s a giant uproar as Cas, sparks flying from his eyes, wiggles his way out of the tangled mess of limbs, unmindful of where he shoves a stray elbow here or there. Like a house of cards, the clones come tumbling down, poor Emmanuel somehow winding up at the bottom of the dogpile. Castiel doesn’t pay their indignant clamoring any mind, stomping his way over to Dean. Without a word, he snatches the mug right out of Dean’s hand. 

             “In the future, Dean, it would be wise of you to make your own cup of coffee,” Castiel threatens imperiously, cradling the mug protectively to his chest like it’s his firstborn.

            “Aye aye, Captain Grumpy,” Dean says, hiding his smile behind his hand as he goes back to his own breakfast.

             He barely notices Castiel leaning forward imperceptibly, eyes narrowing in on the vicinity of Dean’s collarbone. “Dean, what’s that mark on your n –?"

            A fluttering of wings is the only warning Dean gets before a voice is chirping excitedly in his ear, too loud for the early morning hour. “Are you enjoying your consumption of breakfast, Dean? Misha allowed me to help in the preparation.” Crazy Cas is practically bouncing in his little white hospital loafers, eyeing Dean expectantly.

            “Yeah, yeah, it’s, uh, it’s great, Cas. Really, um, yummy.” Dean mimes patting his belly, and Crazy Cas beams in delight, a proud smile breaking across his face. Yet he continues watching Dean with an air of expectancy.

             Resting the urge to roll his eyes, Dean stabs a piece of the quiche and bacon on his fork. The food is about an inch from his mouth before he hesitates. “Cas, the bacon . . . it’s store-bought, right?” he asks, remembering all too clearly the last time Crazy Cas had offered to make lunch. “You didn’t slaughter Porky Pig this time?”

             “Cas can’t leave the bunker, Dean,” Charlie points out, gently patting Crazy Cas on the arm. Like a puppy having its ears scratched, the discombobulated angel leans into the touch, patches of pink blossoming on his cheek. Oh, great, looks like C.C’s gonna have another crush. “None of them can, remember?”

            “Except for one pissy vessel, apparently,” Misha interrupts as he saunters over to the counter, followed by the rest of the clones, unabashedly stealing a piece of Dean’s bacon off his plate. He merely winks when Dean spears him with a murderous glare. “Did you hear about our missing runaway, Dean? I went to visit Jimmy earlier to see if he wanted to join me and the Guru –" he nods at Future Cas “– for some early morning yoga. Imagine my surprise when I knocked at his door, only to find his room empty." Misha's face goes thoughtful. "Kinda looked like a pack of deranged wolverines had ravaged his bed, though.”

 _Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit._ Dean quickly conceals his panicking inner monologue from his face, adopting a surprised expression. "Oh, Sam didn't tell you?" He dares a quick look at Sam, who is silently fuming at him as several heads swivel questioningly in his direction. "Late last night Jimmy found where his family was, and it wasn’t actually that far away. Turns out they were, um, just outside of Kansas. In Missouri, actually. I was still up, offered to give him a lift." He shrugs, takeing a bite of his breakfast as nonchalantly as he can manage. 

           "You sure must have been hauling ass, then, as I recall it being rather late when we had our little tête-à-tête," Future Cas says smoothly, and Dean's heart begins to sink at the skepticism heavy in his voice, but thankfully Castiel (the original) interrupts, voice rumbling out in angry disbelief.

            “And you allowed him to stay, just like that? What if he is needed here to reverse the spell?”

            “Then I go back and fetch him,” Dean bites out in what would be a justifiably defensive tone if not for the fact that Dean was lying through his teeth to his best friend to essentially cover up a good lay. “I’ve already been through it with Jimmy. He's well-aware he’s on borrowed time.”

            Supremely unimpressed, Cas just glowers down at him, nostrils flaring. “And how do you know he will willingly return? What's to stop him from taking his family and running? That was incredibly foolish, Dean.”

            “Yeah, well, it was his family, Cas,” Dean snaps backs. “God knows I’ve never kept you from yours.”

             The retort is out of his mouth before he can retract it, and judging by the wide-eye look that’s slapped onto Cas’s face, the jibe hit its mark.

            And poor Emmanuel, who probably is genuinely concerned by Dean’ behavior, timidly asks, “Would this be a bad time to ask if you are offering leaves of absence to the rest of us?”

            “No, I’m not.” Dean says each word distinctly as he rises from his chair, abandoning his half-eaten breakfast. “Everyone else is staying in the bunker whether they like it or not, until I can find a solution. No exceptions."

            “Where are you going, Dean?” Castiel demands, but thankfully makes no move to follow. Neither do any of the doppelgangers or Charlie or Sam.

            “To fix this.” He doesn’t know if he merely mutters it or if he screams it out loudly enough for the entire state to hear; the blood rushing in his ears makes it hard to tell. He storms out of the room, alone. Hopefully, since the garage is the same way, they’ll just think he’s heading down to hop into his baby. No one should be able to guess what he’s got planned. Good. He doesn’t want to be caught with his pants down for this.

            The hallway is quiet this time around. Maybe the slimy bastard got bored of his creepy antics.

            Dean doesn’t give himself the chance to chicken out. He strides right up to the door, pulls out the simple lock-picking tools he always keeps in his back pocket, and gets to work. It only takes him several moments before the door lock clicks.

            Still no noise. Maybe it - _they?_ \- were waiting for him.

            Sucking in a deep breath that does nothing to steady his jangling nerves, Dean cracks the door wide enough to slip into the room, the sigils flaring brightly as he crosses the threshold, and swiftly closes the door shut behind him.

            He doesn’t have to wait long for the welcoming party.

            The first thing he takes in is the thick black ooze clinging to every surface of the room: the floor, the ceiling, the odd pieces of furniture that were never cleared out, and of course, the . . . _thing_ wearing the familiar trenchcoat. The sticky, liquid void is stark against the white dress shirt, mixed with a gruesome splattering of blood. It mats down its hair, drips like tears from its eyes, stains its lips when it smiles at Dean, too wide and showing more teeth than a human mouth should have.

            “ _Dean, you’ve finally come to join us_ ," it says in its oil-slick voice _. "We were so, so lonely here without you, sweetling.”_

            Dean removes his machete from its sideholder, grip firm on the handle. It’s not as good as borax, but it’ll have to do for now. “You know why I’m here, then." 

            “ _Of course. We heard you, Dean, with the vessel. He sucked your cock so well. We wonder . . . can you do the same for us_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have no idea if this will become the pattern (sex chapter followed by plot chapter). It’ll probably be for the best to give poor Dean’s peen a break. We’ll just have to see how it works out. But yes, sex next chapter. 
> 
> I know there is some fandom dispute over 5x04 and whether the whole thing was just a creation of Zachariah’s (like ‘it’s a terrible life’ was) or an actual possible future. I’m working with the assumption that endverse was just a possible future (now a parallel universe) created by Dean’s choice to not call Sam back. Therefore, even though the Apocalypse was adverted in SPN canon, endverse!Cas’s world is still real and existing regardless.
> 
> Remember: Comments help me improve this fic and write faster :) Tell your friends too! 
> 
> Stop By and say hi at My Tumblr: I-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs


	5. Leviathan!Cas (Come Away, Little Lamb, Come Away to the Slaughter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t play coy with us, Dean.” Tilting its head back, Leviathan rubs a hand against its blood-smeared chin in a poor approximation of consideration. “If you annoy us, perhaps we’ll simply eat you up,” it suggests glibly, licking its lips before flashing a predatory grin. “Snickity-snack, we’ll make it quick, we promise! Just one bite, maybe two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING!!!!!!!
> 
> Okay, now that I have your attention. Although everything up to this point has been mostly fluff and humor, this chapter is everything the last three are not. Leviathan!Cas and Dean will not be making flower crowns as they discover the power of friendship, nor will Dean learn that Leviathan was just misunderstood . Absolutely not. I wanted to challenge myself to write a Leviathan!Cas/Dean scene as realistically as possible, and this is the result.
> 
> This chapter contains dub-con dancing (possibly tripping) along the line of non-con (Dean is here because he thinks it’s the only way to get Leviathan!Cas to leave, so he does ~technically~ consent, but this is in no way safe or altogether sane consent. Sex pheromones are also involved). The following chapter contains explicit and sometimes graphic tentacle sex, pain kink, mild torture etc, some of which Dean gets off on. I also suppose this could be considered necrophilia, given that I tried to give Leviathan’s possessed vessel corpse-ish descriptions. I essentially headcanon that Leviathan don’t possess bodies the same way angels and demons do, they don’t need the body to stay alive).
> 
> Basically, if any of this sounds like it just isn’t your cup of tea, there is no shame in just skipping this chapter and waiting for chapter 6. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone. I most certainly don’t want anyone triggered by a fic, or squicked out to the point they can’t continue reading the rest of Nine of a Kind, which (other than Godstiel) will continue to have safe sex consented on both sides, with lots of aftercare and love-dovey emotions. 
> 
> That being said, I hope everyone who does enjoy a little depravity now and then enjoys this.

            “Like hell that’s going to happen,” Dean spits out with as much bluster as he can, but it’s becoming more difficult to form coherent words with every passing second. Every instinct he has that makes him a hunter – makes him _human_ – is screaming obscenities at Dean, demanding he turn tail and run right this fuckin’ second, pride be damned. Run before the stronger, swifter predator catches him with its icepick-like teeth and swallows him down in a single gulp.

            Instead of backhanding him with all the preternatural-swiftness that Dean expects for his brash insolence, Leviathan simply lolls its head to the side in a mockery of Castiel’s familiar gesture, the motion disjointed and insect-like.

            “ _No . . . no, perhaps, you are right, little one. We can think of more clever things to do with your pretty mouth_.” A shark-like smile breaks across its face, like a rusty zipper being pulled open, revealing more starkly white incisors than Dean knows Jimmy’s mouth used to have. “ _Oh, Dean, Dean, Dean_ ,” it coos in its throaty rasp. _“What good fortune it is for us to meet again like this_! _Last time we had hoped to . . . get to_ know _you better. But alas-_ ” it shrugs with disconcerting nonchalance, hands open in a what-can-you-do gesture _“-t_ _ime was against us_.”

            Running on nothing but sheer bravado at this point, Dean taunts shakily, “Yeah, I-I remember that. If I recall correctly, you were leakin’ worse than a faulty V8.” Oh, does he remember. Rivulets of that black viscous liquid had poured out of Castiel’s deteriorating vessel, leaking from its very pores to drip down its limbs, forming a shallow pool on the floor of that abandoned laboratory. Honestly, Cas’s meatsuit had looked to be about five seconds away from bursting like an over-filled water balloon.

            Now, however, Leviathan stands before him with only the most sporadic of black droplets running off its body. The mess on the walls just looks like the remnants of a temper tantrum. Or possibly boredom – chaos just for chaos’s sake.

            “What’s changed this time?” Dean taunts, the muscles in his face twitching feebly into the approximation of a smirk. “You get your oil checked or somethin’?”

            Malevolent glee radiates from those unfocused eyes – one pupil is constricted to a mere pinprick surrounded by a field of azure, the other appears to be dilated to abnormal proportions, until Dean realizes it’s from the oily goo dripping from its matted hair, down its forehead and leaking onto the thin membrane of the eyeball. Without a word, Leviathan begins shuffling slowly but intently towards Dean, movements stiff and awkward like a reanimated corpse, a distinct limp in the right leg. Dean doesn’t even realize he’s taken a step backward until he feels his back bump against the door.

             “ _It’s the amulet’s spell,_ ” Leviathan says absently as it pauses mere inches from Dean, the bulk of its attention divested to eyeing Dean up like he’s a hunk of juicy prime cut, gaze unblinking. “ _The same spell that brought us here. Its power ensures that nothing can rid us from this earth – short of enacting the spell’s itty bitty loophole. Which, of course, is why you’re here, isn’t it, Dean_?” One corner of its deranged smile pulls up, mocking yet anticipatory at the same time. Son of a bitch, Dean thinks, that toothy bastard knows exactly what the endgame is here, perhaps has known from the second the spell brought it here.

             Dean is just the dumbass that walked right into its web.

             “Who says we’re gonna fuck, fugly? Maybe I’m just here to cut off your head,” Dean grits out, fighting down the urge to gag; up close, Leviathan Cas smells like a Louisiana swamp, wafting fumes of stagnant water and putrid dead fish, all left out for a day in the sweltering bayou sun. With every second that passes, Dean steadily comes to the conclusion that pulling off this asinine plan will be nothing short of a miracle.

             But he’s the only one that can fix this mess; therefore, he has to try.

            “ _Don’t play coy with us, Dean_.” Tilting its head back, Leviathan rubs a hand against its blood-smeared chin in a poor approximation of consideration. “ _If you annoy us, perhaps we’ll simply eat you up_ ,” it suggests glibly, licking its lips before flashing a predatory grin. “ _Snickity-snack, we’ll make it quick, we promise! Just one bite, maybe two._ ”

             “N-no need to be greedy now,” Dean backtracks hastily, trying for brash but stumbles over the words, fighting to squash the tremble in his voice. Already he can feel sweat beading on his forehead. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you heard what the ladies have to say about me.”

            Leviathan only lolls its head from side to side, the movement resembling the pre-striking action of a cobra, nostrils flaring as it scents the air. But still it makes no move to reach out.

            “Come on, dickhead,” Dean taunts, aware of the edge of desperation in his voice, furtively curling his hand around the grip of the machete. “You gonna keep running that big mouth of yours, or are we gonna get this show on the road?”

            Leviathan chuckles, a throaty, menacing thing that sounds like an audition for a role as the next Bond super-villain. Dean can feel it reverberate through his own chest – they're so close now, its shoulder bumping Dean’s as it leans its head in toward him. The living nightmare that wears his best friend’s body drags its slick lips down the side of his neck, leaving behind a trail of brackish slobber. Eyes involuntarily squeezing shut, Dean shivers as much from revulsion as from the unexpected chill of the goo.

            “ _Impatient, little human_? _Oh, don’t worry, so are we. We’ve waited soooo long for this day_ ,” it croons, its arms slithering down to encircle Dean’s lower torso, lips ticking the skin of his neck as it speaks. Its stubble prickles against his flesh, but it does nothing to incite any pleasurable sensations. Grimacing, it’s all Dean can do not to turn his head away and risk exposing his vulnerable neck; instead, he keeps his chin tight locked on his chest, bearing Leviathan’s attentions. _“Waited in cold, dark Purgatory for millennia on top of millennia, feasting on all those gritty and tasteless monster souls. Bleh! Never thought we’d be released back to Earth and all its succulent delights.”_ One cold finger rises to land under his chin, using its iron strength to tilt Dean’s head against his will to meet its smug gaze. _“We have your impetuous little Seraph to thank for that.”_

            Breathing heavily, Dean forces himself not to flinch away from those unnerving eyes, aware of how his nails dig into the soft skin of his palm where he clenches his shaking fist tight. “Anyone ever tell you your sweet talk needs work?” he bites out as his other hand slowly eases the machete out of its holster with minute, undetectable motions. Dean briefly wonders if he dares add, _Probably not; they were too busy asking if you wanted a tic-tac._ He decides he doesn’t.

            Leviathan doesn’t seem to notice, too intent on crowding Dean against the door as it lazily scents the vulnerable spot under his ear. “ _Humans are lip-smacking good, we think – fat and plump and easy to catch. What a lazy herd animal your species is! But for you, Dean . . .”_ it croons into the shell of his ear as its clammy hands slide to cradle Dean’s hips possessively _,_ thumbing at the ridges of bone. Dean stiffens, but he can still feel the unnatural chill that seeps through his clothes _. “Oh, we hunger for more than just your flesh. We crave your pleasure, your submisssssssion._ ”

            Screw this. Dean figures only their little heads are needed for this job anyway.

            If this were a cheesy 80’s action movie, now would be the moment where Dean says something slick like, _Crave this, sucka,_ before whipping out his machete and decapitating Leviathan in one clean sweep. In reality, Dean is not that douche Jensen Ackles, so all he does is silently unsheathe his machete as he prepares to swing his arm swiftly upwards.

            Not that it amounts to shit anyway. Dean gets as far as twisting out of Leviathan’s hold, machete arcing high in the air, before the monster’s hand is shooting out faster than the eye can follow, catching Dean’s wrist in its grasp before the machete can continue its sideways trajectory. Dean struggles fiercely, but the monster holds firm. When their gazes meet, Leviathan smiles, a streak of goo branching just under the skin up the side of its face, and Dean, with cold panic, knows what it intends to do.

            “No, don’t –!”

            Dimly, Dean hears the crack that is his wrist bone fracturing, but the sound is washed out by the fiery agony that ricochets up his arm, all the way up to his shoulder. The machete clatters to the floor before Dean even realizes he’s let go.

            At this point, he can only hope Sam or Cas heard his pained scream and are at this very moment rushing to save Dean’s dumb, reckless ass.

            “ _Now that we have the formalities out of the way,_ ” Leviathan cuts through Dean’s stifled whimpering smoothly,“ _it’s time we cut to the chase._ ”

            Dean doesn’t remember being thrown, can’t even recall being grabbed really, but the next moment he’s conscious for, he finds himself lying sprawled on the opposite side of the room away from the door and his machete, a throbbing pain shooting firecrackers in the back of his head. Vision flickering, he can just make out Leviathan stalking towards him, shrugging off the trenchcoat and jacket so that only Jimmy’s blood-and-goo splattered dress shirt and pants remain.

            “Any second now would be real nice, Sam,” is the only thing Dean manages to grit out as he struggles to get his upper torso vertical, Leviathan’s shadow falling upon him.

            But no incredibly-timed rescue arrives, and Leviathan, unfazed by Dean’s violent struggling, plops itself right on top of Dean’s chest, knocking all the breath out of him in a shocked grunt.

            “ _Nuh-uh-uh. Can’t have any of that now_.” Leviathan waggles an admonishing finger in front of Dean’s face. When Dean lashes out with a fist, Leviathan bats it away as one would a fly, even going as far as to scoop up Dean’s wrists in one hand and pin them above his head at an uncomfortable angle. “ _There, now. Isn’t that better?”_ Settling its weight in the cradle of Dean’s hips, the bastard makes sure to squeeze Dean’s injured wrist.

            “ _Aarrgh!_ Get the hell off me, you fucking puke-spewing dick!” Dean snarls in its face as he haltingly sucks in air through his gritted teeth, futilely trying to buck the monster off him. It doesn’t fail to escape Dean’s notice that he’s in the same position as he was initially with Jimmy, trapped in an ugly, mocking parody.

            But Leviathan just _tsks,_ clicking its tongue in supposed dismay. “ _Now that’s no way to behave, sweetling. You almost make us think you don’t want this, that you didn’t come to this room willingly, seeking us out like a stray bitch in heat.”_ It smiles again, showing those rows and rows of jagged shark teeth, as it begins methodically ripping Dean’s shirt down the middle, tearing off his jacket, shredded pieces of cloth flying everywhere until Dean’s bare-chested and his jeans are shoved halfway down his thighs, left in only his boxer-briefs.

            “Sam!! Cas!!” Dean yells out in desperation as he flails impotently against Leviathan’s preternatural strength, his fear momentarily getting the better of him.

            “ _Sorry, Castiel isn’t home right now.”_ Leviathan lowers its face scant inches from Dean’s and taps its forehead. “ _Would you like to leave a message_?”

            A drop of the black ooze drips off a lank tuff of Leviathan’s hair to land on Dean’s cheek, but Dean feels at that moment the sheer _hate_ roiling off of him could evaporate the droplets right off his skin.

            “I’m going to gank you. In the future. Each and every one of you sonsofbitches,” Dean growls out, taking perverse pleasure in each truth he spits out. He holds onto the righteous fury burning hot in his belly, his own personal talisman against the insidious fear creeping through him like unchecked weeds. “Gonna watch you all explode all the way back to Purgatory, nothing more than a bug on my windshield. No world domination. Do not pass go, don’t collect your $200.”

            “ _You wound us_ ,” is the creature’s dismissive response, using its free hand to loosen Cas’s tie, unbuttoning the dress shirt. “ _To think we care about such paltry things like death. So you send us back to Purgatory as you claim. Big deal. Eventually, we return. You, Dean, are human, and therefore very much finite. But we are the very definition of negative space, the opposite of creation. Our very essence_ is _destruction_.” Leviathan sighs heavily, as though finding all this talk tiring and redundant _. “Surely even you, Dean, can see the folly in such an endeavor?_ ”

            Twitching his lips into a half-cocked smirk, Dean says softly, “We’ll see how you feel when I’m shoving that saint’s bone right through Dick Roman’s gullet.”

            For the very first time, Dean thinks he sees the faintest glimmer of untamed rage brimming in those narrowed, crystalline eyes, and he can feel the smirk wilting off his face.

            “ _Perhaps it’s time we put you in your place, little human_.” A hand cards through his hair, gel-like ooze catching on the strands before it tightens painfully, eliciting a shocked yelp from Dean. “ _Take comfort that our hunger for you is only surpassed by_ his,” it says right before blue-tinged lips descend.

            Dean reflexively clamps his mouth firmly shut, but it doesn’t do much good as Leviathan attacks his mouth ravenously, biting hard enough to make him bleed and swiping its tongue, demanding entry, until finally it forces the slick muscle in.

            The kiss – if one could even could it that, Dean thinks it ought to be referred to as mouth rape – is everything that first kiss with Jimmy was not. Leviathan fucks its tongue into Dean’s mouth, seemingly unconcerned with whether Dean’s own tongue gets in on the action or not, more interested in conquering every inch of Dean’s mouth like the creature owns it. Owns him.

            And, oh God, the whole ordeal is so repulsive. Lips much cooler than the human body temperature, slobbery with more than just saliva. Christ, just the _sound_ of it is revolting. Closing his eyes only heightens the entire awful experience, so Dean forces himself to keep his eyes wide open, no matter how nauseating he finds it to be staring at Leviathan’s ugly mug from such confined quarters.

            But then . . . something shifts, like a lock clicking into place. Everything is slowly becoming sultry and heavy, tastes . . . _sweet_. The rotting stench that’s been making camp in Dean’s nostrils has dissipated until all he smells is a thick, cloying perfume, honeyed and pungent. His blood fizzes under his skin, his heart thrumming harder – still razor-edged in fear, but now with pulses of . . . excitement? Perhaps most amazing of all, Dean can feel his dick growing hard in his jeans, dribbling precome ruining his boxers, and he actually has to beat down the urge to rut his hips against Leviathan’s.

            With a gasp for breath, Dean finally wrenches his mouth apart from the monster’s, shuddering all over. A string of spit and goo links their lips together. “Wh-what the hell was that?” he demands raggedly, eyelids growing heavy, cheeks undoubtedly flushed with something not unlike a fever. “Did . . . did you . . . did you fucking _roofie_ me?”

            Nuzzling his neck again, Leviathan hums, the sound akin to the purr of a giant jungle cat. “ _Just a little something to help you relax, sweetling_. _Trust us, you’ll be thanking us later_.”

            Leviathan cradles the back of Dean’s lolling head as dizzying _heat_ pumps through his veins, a hundred times stronger than anything he’s ever known. It’s not that warning bells aren’t going off in Dean’s head; it’s just that the thought of stopping Leviathan, using his limp limbs to shove him off, seems like too monumental a task for Dean to bear.

            “I  . . . no, I don’t . . .” Dean valiantly tries to get out the words out, shaking his head like a dog trying to rid its ears of water. “You’re not...”

            In favor of ignoring his breathy, nearly incoherent muttering, Leviathan continues to scent Dean’s delicate skin, lips brushing his jaw as it murmurs, “ _We can smell our home on you.”_  It engulfs Dean’s lips then, another all-consuming, open-mouth kiss, and Dean’s head spins as he's hit with another dose of the drugsvenompheremones what-the-fuck-ever is in its saliva. “ _Oh, you even taste like home,”_ it says as it releases him. _“Dean, beautifully bold one, when did you stumble into our realm, hmm? Did you enjoy it – Silly, question. Our apologies. Of course you did. It clings to your skin still_.”

            Incredibly, Dean finds himself nodding, falling into memories of running wild with Benny and eventually Cas by his side, like a pack, cutting down anything that crossed his path and didn’t then get the hell outta the way. Finally feeling like he’d found who he was always meant to be. Words said long ago make their way back to his tongue. “It was . . . pure.”

            Above him, Leviathan slowly sheds its shirt, revealing Jimmy’s – Cas’s – it’s – toned chest, those perfect ridges of hipbone, slim waist descending to tight pants. Dean watches as another forked-branch of jet-black goo branches up Leviathan’s flat stomach up to its pecs, racing past the nipple freckle that Dean vividly remembers making a hickey of on Jimmy. He’s dimly aware that this must mean his hands are now free, but the thought to do something about that knowledge doesn’t occur to him.

            Leviathan catches him staring and smiles mischievously. “ _Didn’t we promise that we were going to have so –”_ Leviathan rocks its hips forcefully against Dean’s raging hard-on, eliciting a needy whine that Dean can’t even feel embarrassed about “– _much –”_ Another punishing grind downward _“– fun_?”

            Panting now, Dean’s struggling to come up with reasons why this is a bad idea, but all he comes up with is the reminder that this is why he’s here, so why the hell shouldn’t he at least enjoy it?

            But something, a voice in his head – one that sounds suspiciously like Cas’s, not like the body-snatcher in front of him, like the _real_ one, pissy and annoyed at everything – badgers him ruthlessly, tells him to push, to fight back. So for now, Dean obeys the voice, tries to hold on to his quickly unraveling sanity. “This . . . this is-isn’t right,” he insists, his words slurring. “You’re a monster . . .”

             “ _Are we really all that different, Dean_?” Leviathan asks in retort, cool fingers brushing slowly along Dean’s right arm, tracing down to the Mark of Cain, nearly fooling Dean into thinking it’s a lover’s caress. “ _We don’t think so. Soon, you’ll be just like us . . . Hungry.”_

             It says the last words in a growl like low rolling thunder, its façade of immortal patience finally beginning to crack as it smoothly rises to its feet, shoving its pants and shoes off until it stands before Dean stark naked, more vein-like streaks of the goo mapping along its body.

             Dean’s eyes track down the body he now knows intimately, his gaze drawn to the vee of Leviathan’s muscular legs. Instead of the proud, ruddy-headed erection he remembers from his tryst with Jimmy, the vessel’s penis lies nestled in the dark patch of wiry hair, soft and flaccid.

             “Well, sorry I’m not doing it for you,” Dean mutters, his vanity irrationally piqued. For all the pheromones dancing through his system like liquid euphoria, it seems his snarkiness remains unaffected. Good to know. Although maybe it’s because Leviathan likes a little fight in its food.

             " _We don’t mate like you primitive apes,”_ Leviathan sneers in contempt, sinking back down to manhandle Dean until his legs are spread wide enough for Leviathan to fit comfortably between them.

            Despite more pressing matters at hand (and in his jeans), Dean’s brow furrows. “Then why the frickin’ hell were you tryin’ to get me to suck you off, huh?” he slurs indignantly, shifting slightly on the hard, cold floor. Absently, he wishes Leviathan had had the foresight to bodily fling him some place with a little more back support. Inconsiderate bastard.

            The anticipatory grin Leviathan aims at him has Dean shivering all over from dread as much as frank curiosity, his already taut nipples tightening, begging to be touched. “ _We have other things for your gorgeous mouth to suck on, Dean_.”

            Dean opens his mouth for another snappy retort, but the words get swept away as another wave of that indescribable heat blasts through him like a summer’s afternoon wind, twisting him up inside until he can think of nothing else except release. It’s like the heat has a mind of its own, demanding to be sated by any means necessary – or it will mercilessly burn him from the inside out.

            “Oh, oh, fuck. It’s – it’s . . . Jesus fuckin’ Christ, it’s too much,” he pants, bare chest heaving. “I can’t – I can’t take it anymore. Just g-get it over with already.” At Leviathan’s raised eyebrow, he begs beseechingly, without an ounce of shame, “ _Please_.”

            “ _As you wish, sweetling_.”

            With its unnatural strength, the body-snatcher has no trouble lifting Dean’s legs until they rest on its shoulders. His cock gives a little twitch at that, basking in the thrill of finally encountering a being stronger than him. Some part of him insists he should feel ashamed – “ _Real men don’t let themselves be pushed around,”_ he remembers his dad saying, although it’s unlikely John ever meant in this specific context – but the urge to protest is beaten down by the thirsty heat that revels in the display of dominance.

             “ _We see the vessel left his mark on you_ ,” Leviathan says thoughtfully, tone betraying a razor’s edge of possessiveness, his fingertips perfectly matching the purple-blue bruises left behind by Jimmy. “ _Now it’s time we made our own.”_ Bending down and forward, the creature nuzzles its nose against the tender flesh of Dean’s inner thigh.

             Stoned as he is, Dean’s not likely to forget those rows of jagged teeth hidden behind that unbalanced smile anytime soon, but when he flinches, Leviathan’s vice-like grip deters him from getting far. “’Ey, ‘ey, watch the jewels! I need those!”

             Ignoring Dean’s outcry, Leviathan only murmurs, tone so seductive it could have been dipped in dark chocolate, “ _Watch us, Dean.”_

             Only when Dean obeys, propping himself up on his elbows as best as he can manage to watch, does Leviathan lean forward, discomforting gaze locked on him. It takes Dean’s leaking dick in hand. Without so much as a preliminary lick to get things started, Leviathan slides its moist lips over the head, taking Dean in to the root.

             Dean has to bite down on his lip, hard enough to bleed, to stop the whine that claws desperately at his throat, begging to be released. Leviathan is like a goddamn porn star, a ferocious cocksucker, bobbing its head without pause, seemingly having no need for air. It’s so very _wet_ , wetter than any woman’s pussy he’s ever stuck his dick in. The heat sizzling in his veins makes up for the lack of body heat, and sweet Mother of Christ, its _tongue –_ slick, talented, able to suss out every sensitive nerve on Dean’s cock. Shit, but Dean swears that while he feels it rolling around the plummy head, he can also feel it wrap around his entire length like a wet, firm handshake.

             “How – how’re you doing that?” Dean pants out, voice already absolutely wrecked, struggling to stay upright on his wobbly elbows. Given the state of his short-circuiting brain, it’s a wonder Dean can form words at all.

             In response, Leviathan pulls off Dean’s dick, making sure to make an absolutely filthy slurping sound. Then, with a deviant smirk that promises unholy plans and wicked things, its tongue _unfurls_ from its mouth, forked like a snake’s, reaching out to coil up the meaty length of Dean’s dick until it reaches the peak. Dumbstruck, Dean watches as the pronged end finds the sensitive slit and then _flicks . . ._

“Hnng –!” Dean’s fist races to his mouth and very nearly knocks his two front teeth out, but he doesn’t care, already sinking his teeth into his knuckle to muffle the strained moans. Somehow his other hand – the uninjured one – has become entangled in Leviathan’s dark hair, gripping in the sticky strands. Tears are beginning to form at the corners of his eyes as he fights the overwhelming onslaught of pleasure. He can no longer remember _why_ it matters to keep quiet, to pretend like this isn’t affecting him when it so clearly is. Was it out of pride, honor – surely not out of some misguided sense of faithfulness?

            “ _That’s it, Dean_ ,” Leviathan says, watching Dean’s internal struggle greedily, now alternating between licking at his balls and pumping his dick with its goo-slicked hand. “ _Surrender to us. You know you want to, it’s written all over your being. Fall . . . and if you’re a good human, we might even catch you_.”

            And Dean . . . surrenders.

            Head falling back, he lets loose a needy, prolonged moan, one that’s swiftly followed by another, then another, each louder than the last, echoing off the walls. It’s like a dam's been broken, letting loose the rushing torrent.

            His moan is one of loss as Leviathan momentarily pulls off to speak again, tone self-congratulatory. “ _Oh, Dean, your fragile heart is beating like a wild, caged thing. Maybe you should give it to us, we known a thing or two about caging wild birds_.”

            He almost responds: _Keeping sucking and it’s all yours. No one else wants it anyway._ What he does instead is gasp out: “Please, please, oh, God, Cas, please, whatever you want, I need _more_.”

            “ _Then all you have to do is take, little human_ ,” is the crooned response before Leviathan positions its mouth at the tip of Dean’s cock, waiting.

            It takes the revelation a moment to sink in before Dean is throwing his head back with a piercing keen, thrusting his hips forward ruthlessly. His dick plunges easily down Leviathan’s throat, meeting no resistance as the slick head tags the back of its mouth. Apparently, eldritch horrors don't come with gag reflexes. Sweat glistening on his chest, Dean throat-fucks the creature’s deceptively plush mouth without reserve, safe in the knowledge that Leviathan won’t stop him.

            Even the guilty thought that he would be hurting him if this was actually Castiel doesn’t stop Dean from shoving as hard as he possibly can, taking all his lust out on the willing receptacle. He's utterly lost in chasing his own pleasure. 

            All the while Leviathan watches him steadily. Its eyes, with their uneven pupils, watch him unblinkingly despite the black-tinged drool running down its chin. They aren't hazy with lust but sharp with predatory intent. A shockingly cold hand sneaks under to take Dean's sack in a possessive hold, startling him with the burst of pleasure.  

            The pheromone-induced heat slicing through his body is so distracting by itself that Dean didn’t even realize he was close. Suddenly, his hips are jerking upward as he releases a strangled whimper, come spraying from the tip like a fountain and down Leviathan’s throat. His head falls back with a relieved moan, squirming on the floor as he feels that clever tongue continue to lick away, cleaning up the traces of Dean’s spend like it’s a fine delicacy.

            It’s only as the tongue is lapping at the head of his overly sensitive cock, sending twinges of pleasure-pain ricocheting through his body, that Dean realizes he’s still very much hard, the feverish need only slightly abated. For the first time since Leviathan kissed him, a sliver of unease works its way past the haze of endorphins dancing through Dean’s system.

            A hand fisted in his hair has Dean peeking open his eyes, finding unbalanced blue staring back down at him. “ _Our turn_ ,” it whispers.

            “Wha . . . what do you want me to do?" he slurs. "On my knees?” No, no, he doesn’t want that - or, at least, he doesn't _think_ so - but he knows that he no longer has any choice in the matter. Leviathan is slowly turning him into a junkie looking for his next fix.

            “ _No. We want you to watch_ ,” its orders, letting Dean’s boneless legs slump off its shoulders as it lean back to sit on its haunches. Its eyes slip close as if in concentration, and Dean waits, hardly daring to breathe.

            It starts as shadows fanning out from Leviathan’s bare back, and for a wild moment, Dean thinks only of Castiel’s wings. But these shadowy things are slim, long, more reminiscent of wiggling snakes. As they slide smoothly to curl around Dean’s legs, spreading him wide again until his hole is exposed, Dean can’t help but let slip a whimper of apprehension.

            “ _Hush, beautiful, submissive one_ ,” it murmurs and soothes, petting his sweaty hair like it actually cares about his comfort.

            "Cas," Dean murmurs, leaning into the touch.

             More slender limbs – he refuses to even think the word tentacles – appear, brushing slickly against Dean’s twitching hole, one wrapping around his scrotum and squeezing enough for Dean to perk up. One bolder than its fellows teases along his rim before pushing its tip right in, its slick aiding the way.

            “Fuck, fuck, yes – that’s it, fucking give it to me,” Dean grunts out, pushing back into the intrusion as it wiggles around to spread him out, its wider end gradually slipping deeper inside of him. He’s so far gone, Dean doesn’t even realize this is the first time he’s ever had anything other than his own curious fingers back there. When the limb slides over his prostate, Dean nearly jackknifes upward, shocked and incredibly aroused by the still unfamiliar sensation.

            “ _Oh, look at us now, Father_ ,” he thinks he hears Leviathan whisper above him, gripping at Dean’s jerking hips as it leans over him, sending another slippery limb to wrap itself tightly around Dean’s leaking erection. “ _Defiling the angel’s mate.”_

            It’s not long before Leviathan’s limbs are increasing the speed of their thrusts to a punishing pace, at least two of the limbs lodged in Dean’s ass now, alternating in and out so that one is always tagging his sensitive prostate. Squelches and other sloppy-sounding noises fill the air. Dean moans, imagining the picture of debauchery he must make: a sacrificial offering to an eons-old monster risen from unfathomable depths. 

            “Yes, oh, fuck me, Cas, come for me, oh, so good, so good!” is all Dean’s able to get out before another slippery limb is demanding entry into his mouth. He grants the limb access, sucking on the tip appreciatively before allowing it to slip deeper, just tickling the back of his throat.

             “ _Yes, Dean, scream for your Castiel. Scream for usss_!” Leviathan snarls, right before ducking its head right to the meaty flesh of Dean’s shoulder. It gives the skin there a hearty lick and then _bites_ down hard, teeth sinking right into the flesh.

             The limb in his mouth escapes just in time for Dean to let loose a piercing keen, the sharp pain from the bite just enough to tip Dean over the cliff and right into ecstatic orgasm, the force rippling through him in never ending waves. Above him, Leviathan releases his shoulder to throw its head back and howl, its twitching limbs coating Dean's hole and his inner thighs with the same black fluid.

            It’s in the aftermath, both of them coming down from their high, Dean the only one panting from loss of breath, shivering as the pheromones gradually drain out of his system and the aches begin to make themselves known, that Dean sees it. In those crystal-blue eyes, the pupils for the first time the correct size, Dean catches what just might be a glimmer of real emotion. . . Confusion, guilt, revulsion, horror.

            “Dean . . .”

            Had he really never thought to question if Leviathan had been lying? That some semblance of Cas’s grace had remained in the vessel, chained by the invaders’ will?

            Without even really thinking about it, Dean reaches out to lay a hand on his cheek, uncaring when those eyes dilate wildly in reaction, the one now the size of an ink spot. Through torn and bloody lips, Dean grinds out, “It’s okay, Cas. Everything’s going to be okay. I forgive you. . . I nee – I love you.”

            With an almighty roar of fury, Leviathan backhands Dean, whose head snaps back to hit the floor with a sickening crack. Vision flickering once more, Dean watches blearily as Leviathan clutches at its hair, more of the viscous liquid dripping from its ear. “ _No, no, we’ve already claimed him, you can’t have him, he’s ours to do with as we please! Ours!”_

Spitting out a bit of blood from his mouth, Dean retorts lowly, “Sounds like Cas disagrees.”

            “ _Your precious angel isn’t here, Dean_!” the monster hisses at him in outrage, lips curling derisively to reveal ice-pick teeth.

            “Guess again.”

            And holy hell, Dean has never been more relieved to hear that gravely, supremely pissed-off voice than he has this very second. Eyes glowing with grace, the Angel Castiel pulls his hissing and spitting naked body-double off of Dean by the scruff of its neck, not even breaking a sweat. In his other hand is his angel blade, securely lodged under Leviathan’s throat.

            If the angel is at all affected by Dean’s debauched state of undress, he politely doesn’t show it, instead choosing to peer down at Dean with what might either be concern or complete befuddlement. “Are you all right, Dean?”

           No, no he’s most certainly not. Not this time. “Yeah, I’m fine, Cas,” he says instead, getting to gingerly to his feet, taking stock of his body and mentally calculating how much alcohol he’ll need to numb the pain and dull the memories. “That sure was some spectacular timing by the way.”

           "You called – _Quiet you_ ,” the angel snarls at the Leviathan, still thrashing in Cas’s grip in an attempt to bite off Cas’s hand. Castiel violently shakes it until it settles, before turning his gaze back to Dean. “You called for me, Dean, so I answered,” he says simply before his expression turns strangely hesitant, maybe even sheepish. “I would have intervened sooner, but . . .”

            “But the counter-spell hadn’t been triggered yet,” Dean surmises. “Right, yeah, uh, thanks for that . . . How . . .” He clears his throat, wincing at the tight pull of muscle. “How much did you see?”

            Castiel’s gaze darkens, his grip visibly tightening around the back of Leviathan’s throat. “Enough.” Taking his sword away from Leviathan’s neck for a few second, Castiel flicks his hand. At his command, Dean’s machete comes sailing across the room to fly into Dean’s nearly unprepared hand, handle-first. “I can feel the spell working, Dean, but perhaps you would like the honors, Dean?”

            “ _Careful, Dean. You don’t want to hurt poor Castiel do you_?”

            Dean bares his teeth, pulling back his machete. He takes comfort that whatever traces elements of the real Castiel are left in there will survive anyway. “You’re not Cas.”

            For a second Jimmy Novak’s tarnished face vanished, replaced by some hideous thing with nothing but a gaping mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. Then Dean swings, and the head separates cleanly from the neck to roll off the shoulders and hit the floor. The body slumps forward when Castiel releases it, the stump leaking black goo all over the floor. It’s only a matter of seconds before both head and neck are softly glowing, and then they’re gone, probably sent back fully restored to that abandoned lab, the water reservoir, who the fuck even knows at this point?

            And all Dean can feel is numbness. _Fuckin’ hell, what I have I done?_ How can he do this another goddamn time, let alone seven? He might as well go and cut off Misha’s and Future’s Cas heads for all the good he’s going to do for them.

            He sighs gustily, plowing onward. “Fuck, I’m still going to have to clean all this up later. The damn spell couldn’t just Mr. Clean this all away?”

            When he gets no response, he asks, “Cas?”

            Turning around, he finds Castiel standing three inches behind him, his two fingers already reaching out. Judging by the almost apologetic look in the angel’s eyes, apparently he means to do more than just heal Dean’s injuries.

            The last thing he manages before the numbing darkness swallows Dean whole is, “Don’t tell Cas or Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now time to work on the actual chapter I was trying to upload. Seriously, fuck me, I just lost over 100 kudos, and 40 comments, 70 people probably are wondering why I haven't updated. Seriously, just fuck my life, man. (But seriously, I want to cry most about losing those comments and all the nice things people said about my fic.... FUCK!!!)


	6. If I'm Castiel, and You're Castiel, Then Who is Flying the Plane?? (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel just glares harder at him, as though expecting Dean to bow under the hefty weight of his steely gaze, but when it only serves to make Dean raise his chin in defiance the angel abruptly breaks off, sinking back in his chair with a sigh as he rubs a palm across his stubbled chin. “I shouldn’t even be explaining myself to you; it is not the duty of men to question the will of angels.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Here's the actual chapter I was trying to post before I fucking went and deleted the entire fic.)
> 
> Warnings: Vague reference to the events of 9x03 (I’m no angel); also Dean and angel!Cas being stubborn assholes with each other. Also this is probably way shorter than most of you were hoping for. My apologies, but I needed to stop staring at this.

        Waking up in bed twice in one day isn’t a common occurrence in Dean Winchester’s life. The hunter lifestyle doesn’t really make room for excessive indulgences like impromptu lay-ins and afternoon naps – the old saying _I’ll sleep when I’m dead_ is considered a life philosophy in most hunter circles. In fact over the last few weeks, it became more likely for Dean to find himself coming to on some lumpy motel couch, cranky and hungover, from where he’d passed out the night before, too drunk to stumble his way clumsily back to his bed.

        Of course for all Dean knows, there’s a good chance he’s lost more than just a handful of hours – wouldn’t be the first time a major injury knocked him on his ass for a day or two.

       But who the hell _tucked_ him into bed? What is he, five?

       Dean gets his answer soon enough. To his mild surprise, the first thing Dean sees when he finally cracks open his eyelids is Castiel – the angel, not the human one thankfully – camped out at his bedside, silent and watchful, the tan sprawl of his too-large trenchcoat slipping out over the sides of the chair he’s perched himself in. The whole thing is eerily similar to the night Dean ended up in the hospital after Alistair nearly dragged him back to Hell, slowly awakening and expecting Sam, only to find an unusually grim Castiel guarding Dean’s beside like some shabbily-dressed sentry.

       This Castiel, of course, has no idea that he’s mimicking past events, probably wouldn’t care if he did know. Leaning forward with his clasped hands hanging loosely between his parted knees, the only acknowledgement Castiel makes in regard to Dean’s return to consciousness is a steady blink. Really, it’s amazing how much stern disapproval – and . . . possibly relief? – can be conveyed in that one split-second motion.

        For a moment, Dean can’t help but groggily wonder if this is just some hyper-realistic hallucination. He’s not used to seeing Cas in his room, calmly situated like he pops in all the damn time. Still sluggishly breaking free from the lingering tendrils of unconsciousness, Dean’s mind drifts back to the day he officially moved into this room, carting in his clothes, guns, blades, and records, more excited than a kid in a candy store when he’d splurged on the memory-foam mattress. More than anything, he vividly remembers eyeing the still empty right-half of the room in consideration, eventually deciding on nicking a chair from another room, placing it strategically next to the new-ish TV he’d bought second-hand. Although Dean had never allowed himself to stop and think too hard on his too-deliberate nesting habits, in his heart of hearts, he is aware he’d harbored the half-formed hope that maybe one day soon Cas would finally stop getting his wings tied up in Heaven business. Perhaps the angel would drop by on a whim (or more likely seeking the Winchesters’ assistance with something) and be suitably impressed when he found himself in the Men of Letters bunker, their new home, would have possibly inquired to see Dean’s room (to make sure it was properly warded from demons and other creepy-crawlies, of course). Surely it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine Cas would have liked his own chair when he watched TV with Dean, seeing as angels don’t sleep. Maybe they’d have caught a late night John Wayne flick or two while they chatted a bit, have a beer or two; maybe Dean could’ve taught the angel how to play – and cheat at – a few card games and then they’d go for a few rounds late into the night. . . .

         None of that has ever come to pass, of course. If it ain’t fuckin’ angel tablets or deceitful snakes like Gadreel (or Dean himself), something is always keeping Castiel away from the bunker. And even with the handful of times he has wound up bunking with the Winchesters for a few hours, Cas has yet to ask to see Dean’s room, hasn’t even ventured near it. Dean, perhaps childishly, refuses to be the one to hand over the invitation, because hey, if Cas wants to see it, he can ask, seeing as his vessel has a working mouth and all. As for Dean, outright asking just reeks to high heaven of desperation, shows more of his hand than he’s willing.  

       Besides. It’s just a goddamn bedroom, nothing to get his boxers in a twist.

       The irony is not lost on Dean that the Castiel perched by his bed undoubtedly couldn’t give a rat’s left asscheek what Dean does with his personal space. The moment he’s done reaming Dean – _whoops, poor word choice there, Deano_ – for his moronic stunt with Leviathan, he’s probably going to flap off to the other end of the bunker to continue sulking and avoiding the remaining clones.

       Might as well get it over with. What’s a little more punishment?

       “Anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to stare?” Dean asks in a slow, sleepy drawl that tapers off to a yawn. Maybe it’s not his most original retort, but fuck it, the angel won’t know the difference –

       “Yes. You do. Repeatedly,” Cas responds tersely as he straightens in his seat, voice dry as saw dust.

       Well, then. It’s not like Dean has ever claimed to be right all the time, now has he?

       Dean makes sure Castiel can clearly see him roll his eyes before shuffling backwards to the headboard in a half-sitting, half-leaning position, the sheets slipping over his bare chest to pool at his lap. Rather than thinking about how Castiel must have flown his very _naked_ ass back to his room, Dean instead focuses on taking a quick inventory on the injuries he expects to have accumulated after his . . .   _ordeal._ Yet he finds none, no aches and no pains, can’t even find Jimmy’s marks (Dean’s man enough to admit he feels a pang of loss at the latter).

       “Wow. Color me impressed, Dr. Cas. You’re better than a fifth of Jack and a few pills of Vicodin,” he says, pleasantly surprised when his voice flows out smoothly, his throat no longer feeling thick and sounding freshly fucked. “Maybe you should look into trading in your trench for a white labcoat and some cowboy boots.”

        While Castiel inspects the lapel of his trenchcoat in alarmed confusion, Dean slips his right hand from beneath the covers to flex it, down and back and once in a loose circle, pleased that he has a full range of mobility. Although . . . it’s strange, Dean thinks as he wiggles his unbruised fingers, friggin’ weird, actually . . . he can’t actually recall _why_ he expected this particular injury, why he thought the bone would be severely fractured, that stabbing pain should be shooting up his forearm right now. Obviously, Castiel used his mojo to heal him up nice and proper, but why can’t he remember . . .?

       “I took the liberty of dulling the memories,” Castiel interrupts his thoughts, his brusque tone implying there’s a _No, I wasn’t planning on asking for permission_ tacked on at the end.

       Forgetting his hand, Dean twists to the side to stare at Cas in sharp-eyed accusation. “What? You mean you mind-whammied me?”

       Castiel shrugs, the nonchalant movement somehow bird-like. “Not quite what you seem to be thinking. I simply took great care in selectively choosing and eliminating certain details of your . . . trauma. Made the memory itself cloudy, if you will,” he corrects, eyeing Dean with a glint of self-satisfaction. Indeed, when Dean begins to tenaciously dig through his head, he finds his recollection of that messy hate-fuck with Leviathan Cas disjointed and garbled. It’s not a perfect wipe – he remembers taunting the Leviathan, finally provoking them into a response . . . then it's just a hazy recollection of feelings: pain, cold terror . . .  and shameful pleasure that makes Dean want to both scrub his skin raw with steel wool under scalding water – and also furiously jerk off until his balls shrivel up just to reclaim that dizzying high.

       And _always_ that viscous ooze, clinging to his skin as it dripped from the monster’s pores, blacker than the starless voids of space.

       But the details of the act slip away from him like water through his fingers, leaving only a vague, spotty memory, as though he’s trying to remember something that happened years and years ago, not several hours previously. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.

       “Dean, you have just suffered great pain for the sake of doing what you knew was just and needed,” Cas continues quietly, taking notice of Dean’s increasingly panicked expression. “I saw no reason for you to be tormented further by your own mind, so I took the necessary actions . . . This way, you need not suffer pointlessly.”

        Unbidden, the image of Castiel dressed in surgeon’s garb comes to mind: the angel standing over an unconscious Dean lying flat on an operating table with the top half of his skull missing, scalpel in hand as he cuts out little bloody bits of Dean’s brain.

        “What the hell, dude!” Dean does _not_ screech and he does _not_ pull the covers up to his bare chest like some scandalized maiden protecting her virtue. “You can’t just mess with my head like that! You have to at least, you know . . . _ask_ first!”

        “And what would have been the point of that? I don’t need to be an angel, Dean, to foresee how that would have played out. You would have undoubtedly said ‘no’ out of some misguided sense of ‘personal space’ and then I would still have done it and we’d be right where we are now,” Castiel fires back calmly, unperturbed by Dean’s outburst. Dean inwardly scowls – bastard probably spent the whole time organizing his defense into an air-tight argument while Dean was impersonating Sleeping Beauty. It’s grossly unfair, is what it is. “I saw an opportunity to lessen your suffering, Dean, and I took it. Forgive me if you think I was being impetuous, but I will not apologize for doing what I thought was best for you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Dean?”

        “Oh, I can understand, alright. Translation: You didn’t think the dumb human could handle putting his own Band-Aid on.” Still glowering, Dean insists adamantly, “You had no right to mess with my head like that, Cas.”

        Castiel just glares harder at him, as though expecting Dean to bow under the hefty weight of his steely gaze, but when it only serves to make Dean raise his chin in defiance the angel abruptly breaks off, sinking back in his chair with a sigh as he rubs a palm across his stubbled chin. “I shouldn’t even be explaining myself to you; it is not the duty of men to question the will of angels.”

       That angelic arrogance just serves to piss Dean off further, scratching at all-but-forgotten wounds to make them bleed anew. “If you care so much about my fragile psyche,” he mutters peevishly, a disgruntled snarl running an undercurrent in his words, “then why didn’t you just wipe all the Hell memories when you resurrected me?”

        That gets a reaction, Cas’s gaze flickering away as his lips tighten almost imperceptibly.

       “Because there are some things that not even I can make you forget, Dean,” Castiel replies solemnly before switching his gaze back, expression resolute. “This, however, was something well within my power to fix.” Brow furrowing in unhappy lines, Cas tilts his head to the side, the familiar gesture making something in the space beneath Dean’s ribs clench with emotion. “Do you truly think so little of me that you’d easily believe I’d callously allow you to cross harm’s way if I knew there was a safer alternative?”

        Though the angel honestly seems more bewildered than hurt, Dean still flinches like the words are a physical blow. “I don’t dislike you, Cas,” he disputes in a very small voice, shamefaced at how this conversation has spun so wildly out of hand. “Not even a little. You know that.”

         Castiel just frowns at that. “But I don’t,” he states simply. Before Dean can reply, the angel sighs. “Then at least know that the only thing I’m truly repentant for is that you had to undergo this test alone. If I could . . . I would have stepped in and taken your place.”

        “Like hell you would,” Dean mutters mutinously under his breath, which Castiel decides not to dignify with a response. Just the thought of Cas anywhere near that goo-spewing monstrosity has him shuddering in fury as much as revulsion. Having the angel as a witness to Dean’s humiliation was bad enough. . . .

          And just like that the wind is gone from Dean’s sails, and he plummets back down to Earth, realizing just how much of an ungrateful jackass he’s being, getting worked up over nothing. He should apologize, but where he was full of nothing but cutting remarks a few minutes ago, now he’s got nothing, has no idea how to proceed. Treading lightly was never in his admittedly eclectic skillset. Goddammit, but dealing with this early version of Cas is a fucking challenge in itself, nothing like before when they first met, because now he _knows_ Castiel, knows his fears and his guilt, his disposition to act like a grumpy little fucker, knows how the angel thinks (usually, because just when Dean thinks he has Cas completely figured out, he’s turning around and the fallen angel has found new ways to surprise him, even if it’s something as mundane as finding a sense of purpose working a shitty minimum wage gig at a gas station).  

             What’s more, Dean knows the bond they’ve forged over years, fighting side by side, brothers-in-arms except _more_ – yet he’s unable tap into any of it. He can’t just slap Cas on the shoulder and say, _We’ll work it over a cold one, buddy_. For one thing, that seems like a good way to lose a hand; and for another, this Castiel isn’t his best friend, not yet anyway.

             He and Castiel are back to square one, Dean realizes in dismay: the divine creature of Heaven and the skeptical hunter, both clumsily fumbling in the dark as they try to figure out where they stand with each other and what makes the other tick.

              _At least I didn’t stab him in the heart this time,_ Dean thinks wryly. _I’m gonna go ahead and chalk that up for a win._

            “Dean . . .” Castiel hesitates, fiddling with the belt of his coat before pressing on. “If it truly bothers you, I will put the memories back and leave your mind as it was, unmolested, if that is what you wish.” His cerulean blue eyes are wide and guileless, and fuck, but he does truly sound sorry. Or, at least, it sounds like he’s _trying_. Whether the angel is merely faking empathy to pacify Dean or is truly feeling some semblance of true remorse remains to be seen.

            “No, no . . . I don’t . . .” Dean huffs out a gusty sigh, running his hands through his hair in a futile attempt at distracting himself from his embarrassment. Christ, he feels about two inches tall right now, lower than pond scum. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Cas. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m just . . .” When his feeble words fail him, he throws his hands up, making an incoherent noise of pure frustration.

             But Cas knows, he always somehow knows. “It’s okay to be angry, Dean,” he reminds him gently. “You’re dealing with an impossible situation, and there are never easy choices. Being Righteous is an arduous journey, and not always rewarding, as the Holy men and women that have come before you would have you know. Despite your penchant for rushing recklessly towards danger – or perhaps because of it – you have my full confidence that you will safely navigate through this task God has set before you and emerge triumphant.”

             Despite the glowing praise, Dean has half a mind to rip loose a snarky and bitter comment about how God – if he is even around anymore, which Dean seriously doubts – is more like a snot-nosed kid with a train set; all he wants is to see how fast he can get the trains to go before they collide head-on. For once, though, Dean has the good sense to keep his damn mouth shut and simply nods his thanks for Castiel’s gesture of sympathy, to which Castiel seems quite pleased for.

             Of course, Cas wouldn’t be Cas if he didn’t follow that oddly touching moment up with a pissy, narrowed-eyed stare. “That being said, Dean, I would greatly appreciate it if in the future you ceased taking your anger out on me.” He leans forward, his voice coming out in a smoky growl that could incinerate Dean into a smoldering heap of sexually frustrated ash if he came any closer. “I might not be so understanding next time.”

             “That so?” Dean teases, a tiny smile slipping out despite himself. “You gonna put me in time-out, Cas?” and promptly resists the urge to slap a hand over his traitorous mouth. At the moment, Dean has no problem blaming the stupid clone spell for also switching off the part of his brain that knows when to stop turning every single thing into a come-on.

              An almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his pink mouth is the only indication of Castiel’s good humor, although it’s unclear if he read or even understood the hidden flirtation. “Even if I locked you up in the deepest prisons of Heaven, Dean, I doubt even that would stop you from causing me grief,” he says, not unkindly, hell, it’s very nearly _teasing._ “It seems you have a rather unfortunate knack for finding trouble.”

              Dean ducks his head at the angel’s incongruously approving tone, conscious of the deep burning blooming at the tips of his ears – Jesus, what a weird, backhanded compliment to be pleased over, but there you have it.  

               It is in the proceeding silence that it finally dawns on Dean that he’s spent the last ten or so minutes chatting up Castiel while completely buck-ass-naked. Once again, Dean is fervently glad he’s dealing with the stony-faced angel with the libido of a Catholic school nun (not Dean’s kind of nun, the real kind), rather than having Dean’s Cas and the white elephant in the room that is their ever-complicated relationship.

               The knowledge that Cas has finally been knocked off his cloud and taken a bite from the forbidden fruit has added a whole new level of awkward to their friendship (at least on Dean’s side, who has spent more than one night guiltily wondering so many, many if’s: if Cas had enjoyed it, if April had taught him a trick or two, if Cas was a fast learner, an attentive lover, if he would be up to more despite the disastrous outcomes of his first attempt, if after Meg, Daphne, and April, is Cas even capable of finding men sexually attractive. These nights usually ended with Dean either jerking off, each time less satisfactory than the last, or sometimes when he can’t even get it up from loneliness, he falls asleep wondering if he’d have had a better chance with Castiel if he’d been born Deanna Winchester).

              “Hey, Cas, man,” Dean says with forced nonchalance, doing everything he can to finally stop thinking about Castiel’s dick – ah, hell. Now he has to start all over. “I’m gonna go throw some clothes on, then we’ll go check on Sam, Charlie and, er, the other you’s. That sound good to you?”

               After a moment’s deliberation, Castiel answers blankly, “That seems like a reasonable request,” not quite adding two and two together.

               Exasperated, Dean clarifies. “. . . Which means I need you to turn around.” He makes a twirling motion with his finger for extra emphasis.

               When it finally clicks, Castiel abruptly frowns, like he’s offended that Dean would exclude him from such an important and mentally-demanding task. “ _Why_?”

              “Because . . . because that’s what people do!” Dean sputters, disbelieving that this conversation is even taking place. Just because he wants to get into Cas’s pants doesn’t mean he wants Cas playing Peeping Tom. And yeah, a tiny part of it is basic modesty, but the larger part of him is terrified his being naked in the same room with Cas – sans bedsheet – is going to send this party straight to Boner City. “You can’t just creep on people, Cas!”

              “Dean, stop being so obtuse,” Cas huffs out, wholly unimpressed with Dean’s stance on mundane things like nudity. To be fair, the last time this Castiel probably hung out with people, Adam and Eve were frolicking in the Garden in all their fig-leaves-on-privates glory. “Not only did I rebuild your entire body from the rotting remains of your corpse shortly after I raised you from Hell, but I also transported your still-nude body to your room while you were unconscious mere hours ago.” He raises a smug eyebrow. “I’m confident I can handle glimpsing your unclothed flesh for a third time.”

              “That your way of saying you want to take our relationship to the next level, Cas? Aw, you should have said something,” Dean bites out sarcastically, more flustered than he should be. “Just turn the hell around, Cas!” he shouts, then mutters to himself, “ _Christ on a pogo stick, I sure as hell didn’t miss this . . ._ ”

               Square jaw clenching, Castiel gives a much put-upon sigh that sounds more like a tire deflating, but he acquiesces all the same, rising from his chair to turn around and face the wall, arms crossed across his chest petulantly. “I don’t understand when you became so concerned with modesty. The you from 2008 never seems all that concerned with who sees him without clothes, especially if he’s in the midst of fornication.”

               “For the love of . . . that’s completely different, Cas, and you know it,” Dean sighs as he slips off the bed, wrapping the sheet around his waist just in case there’s still wandering angel eyes as he makes his way to where he sees his clothes on the floor, miraculously repaired and clean, even _folded_ , free of charge thanks to angelic dry-cleaning. “Now I think you’re just fucking with me, you dick.”

               “Trust me, Dean, I am not . . . _fucking_ with you,” Cas sniffs haughtily.

              Dean is helpless to stop the surprised laughter that unexpectedly bubbles out of his throat at Cas’s stilted attempt at cussing. However, it’s cut off awkwardly by a stab of embarrassment when his cock perks right back up again at the here-and-gone-again thought of Cas growling in his ear as he fucks furiously into Dean, spewing filth and more hot curses while Dean eggs him on. The worst part is he doesn’t even know which Castiel he’s thinking about anymore.

               Ladies and gentlemen, it’s official: Dean’s dick is a slut for Castiel, no matter how inappropriate the situation. He wishes he could say he’s even a little bit surprised, but even Dean Winchester is not that good of a liar.

                As he shrugs on his boxers with some difficulty – _Fuck, think gross thoughts. Witches’ goo. Turkey burgers. Sam in the shower, no, changing baby Sam’s diapers, oh, yep, that did the trick –_ Dean asks, “So what’s the scoop, then, McGruff?  I miss anything good while I was, uh, checked out?”

                From behind him, he hears Castiel’s curt voice as he answers. “After bringing you to this room, healing your body and mind, I flew to your brother and the . . .  _Other_ one, both of whom had grown greatly concerned from your abrupt departure and subsequent disappearance. Fortunately, I arrived just as they were debating whether to seek you out on their own. It was a small matter to convince them that you had stepped out to clear your head, and would return momentarily.  Your brother accepted my lie easily enough, but the unangelic one tried to argue with me, insisting that he had to go after you, that you might need him.” Castiel’s voice takes a turn from mildly bored to contemptuously dismissive. “I told him his assistance was unnecessary and would only distract you, an innocuous yet truthful observation to which he irrationally responded negatively to.”

              Dean snorts. “That so,” he says cautiously, still bent over. _Bet Cas loooovvvved that._ “He have anything to say, Bossypants?”

              Castiel grimaces. “He was very vocal with his opinions on the subject of what he called my ‘interference,’ and accused me of being a ‘tunnel-visioned, overbearing son-of-a-bitch.’ Needless to say, I would hardly be surprised to learn he picked that colloquialism up from you,” he says dryly, tone implying the angel is more than a little cheesed-off at the moment.

              Fuck. If things continue the way they’re so obviously headed, Dean’s going to have to put these two through some kind of couples’ counseling – before the Castiels start deciding who ‘gets’ Dean on the weekends.

              “You know that ‘other human’ is _you_ , right, Cas?” Dean says tentatively, fully aware he’s tip-toeing through a rather sore subject, wary of the angel smiting him for his ‘blasphemy.’

              “Dean, I am an angel of the Lord, and that man – that _half-breed –_ is as far from divinity as it is possible for one to get. Ripping out one’s grace and falling to become human tends to have that effect.” Castiel sounds like he’s been shot through with formaldehyde, his words stiff, wooden, and containing a note of warning. “A star has more in common with a tree leaf than I to him.” He can’t be sure, but Dean thinks he catches the angel muttering crossly, “ _Surely even you can comprehend that._ ”

              “Cas is a pretty fuckin’ awesome leaf, then,” Dean retorts venomously, offended on Cas’s behalf. Fuming, he roughly shoving his feet into his socks. “And he didn’t rip out his grace – he was tricked out of it by an angel named Metatron. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Yea-high, chin-beard? Guy’s practically the mayor of Douche-ville.”

              “That’s impossible,” the angel replies blandly. “The Scribe of God hasn’t been seen for centuries.”

              “Jesus fucking –” Forgetting all about his clothes, Dean whips around on the spot, red in the face, but the angel doesn’t turn around. “What does it matter, Cas?! It’s fucking potato, patato. Just ‘cause Cas got his wings clipped doesn’t change who he is, except maybe loosened that stick lodged up his ass. He’s still _you_. . .  This is your future, Cas, and you’ve got to face it whether you like it or not!” Dean pauses to catch his breath, chest heaving, and then asks in a helpless tone, “Why the hell are you being so difficult about this?”

              Silence, the angel breaks its impersonation of a living statue, fidgeting on the spot, but still not looking at Dean. Then  . . . “I’m not discussing this any further.” Just like that, shutting Dean down.

_You’re right, Castiel. You and Cas are nothing alike._

                Dean barely bites back the waspish retort – he isn’t even sure if it’s true or not, can’t deal with examining his emotions too closely right now – and instead turns back around to stuff his legs into his pants with jerky, angry movements. There’s no point arguing this fucked up meta-physical crisis with the angel when the bastard won’t even talk to him, and he needs to keep Castiel relatively content so he can continue pumping him for information.

               It’s a few moments before he feels relatively calm enough to trust himself with speaking. “What happened with Leviathan then? Did you send him packing or what?” he asks gruffly, switching tracks. “That part’s still a little fuzzy. All I remember is you swooping in after, uh, it was over – and then nothing.”

              “You need not worry, Dean,” Castiel asserts, voice gentling by a hair. “Your sacrifice was not in vain: the parasites were banished back to where they were borne from – perhaps back to the wasteland called Purgatory, although it’s more likely they were sent back in time to the exact moment they were taken. I am confident they will never harm you again.”

              Still bare chested, Dean straightens up, fiddling nervously with his t-shirt, glad he has the excuse of changing to not have the angel able to see his face, see the crippling shame and self-disgust he knows is written so plainly there on every solid line of his features. Here comes the hard part. “Yeah, about that . . . How you holding up, Cas?” Dean asks hoarsely, not even bothering making a try for nonchalance. Wouldn’t do him any good anyway, not with how small his voice sounds, how it trembles like he’s a little boy about to be punished. “I mean, can’t imagine it was easy seeing that, your vessel all fucked up and what not . . .  and, you know . . . me and it . . . Talk about compromising situations, huh?” he chuckles feebly, the noise rusty and painful in his throat like he’s choking on razor blades.

              It’s silent for so long that Dean begins to think Castiel somehow didn’t hear him, or worse is silently judging Dean, disgusted by what he saw but unsure what lie he needs to fabricate so he can placate Dean.

              But then, in a voice tinged with gobsmacked incredulity: “Dean, you are the one who was violated – _brutalized_ – by that abomination, and you’re asking me if _I’m_ okay?”

              “Yeah, well, it can’t have been all that pleasant seeing yourself like that,” Dean argues back, still not reassured but quickly losing steam. “Er, I mean, I guess you don’t see yourself as your vessel, so why should you care . . .?” He’s babbling now, he realizes. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything, I’m shutting up now,” he says as he gives up and turns tail, hastily pulling the shirt over his head to hide the intense blush fanning out like a hot breeze across his face.

               “. . . You are so strange, Dean Winchester,” Castiel eventually says, voice devoid of anything remotely like disgust, more bemused than anything, and Dean imagines the angel shaking his head. “Even for a human.”

              Dean allows himself a tiny grin, but only because Castiel can’t see that, either. “What, you sayin’ all your other human chums are perfectly normal schlups who work desk jobs and driving Priuses while listening to America’s Top Forty?” he teases, words still a little shaky with relief. _Cas doesn’t hate me._ “Makes a guy jealous, Cas.”

              “I don’t understand a word you just said, but it sounds quite painful,” Cas replies bluntly, and it’s so familiar that Dean thinks if he’d said _I don’t get that reference,_ Dean would have pissed himself from laughter, even as his belly would have ached in nostalgia.

              “I’m just yanking your chain, Cas, don’t worry about it,” Dean reassures, genuinely smiling now.

               “But there is no reason for you to be jealous, Dean; you are my only human charge ever . . . only . . .” Castiel mumbles something that Dean doesn’t quite catch before trailing off.

               Dean looks over his shoulder in askance, sees Castiel looking back at him with an uncertain expression, a rare look on the angel that rests clumsily on his face. “Only what?” Dean prompts, not even bothering to berate Cas for turning around without asking.

              “In this future, you consider me . . . I mean to say, you and I are friends?” Castiel asks cautiously, the word awkward on his tongue, his expression half-hopeful, half-bewildered. To be fair, Dean can’t even imagine what it would be like if he’d been the one Marty Mcfly-ied  from 2008 to now, faced with a human Castiel that knows the very best and worst of him and yet still looks at Dean like the sun shines out of his freckled ass.

              “Yeah, Cas, you’re my friend,” he says softly, and just thinking about his Cas helps him loosen his tenacious grip on the hot coil of anger simmering in his belly, just enough to let his sincerity shine through. “You’re . . .” At a lost for anything eloquent that doesn’t make him sound like a besotted teenager with a crush, Dean chuckles self-consciously. “You’re a pain in the ass is what you are, but fuck, dude, you’re like one of, what, five people still alive that I actually like? Cas, all we’ve been through, you don’t have any idea . . .” He clears his throat. “I haven’t the slightest clue where to begin. Just trust me when I say you’re just as much family to me as Sammy is. Can you do that for me, Cas? Can you just trust me?”

              Whatever Castiel had been expecting, it clearly hadn’t been that. He stares at Dean with startled blue eyes, mouth forming a tight little line. It would be almost comical-looking, the flabbergasted warrior of God, if not for the fact that it makes a lump form in Dean’s throat, wondering if in all his billion years of existing and unquestioningly following his absent Father’s Divine Orders, if anyone – if even the angels – had ever expressed as much to Cas.

              It’s a depressing thought, imagining Cas watching humanity from atop his lonely cloud. . . .  

              “I . . . I will try, Dean,” the angel replies solemnly, still seemingly wary of this newfound friendship, but Dean supposes it’ll have to do for now. “I presume this is the part where I say . . . thank you?” Cas ventures uncertainly, like he knows the theory of gratitude, though the finer details escape him.

              But Dean just shakes his head as he crosses the room to stand beside the angel, taking a chance and playfully knocking his shoulder against the angel’s (and ow, fuck, that was a dumb idea). “It’s not something you say thanks for, Cas. You just accept it. Like I said, you’re my friend just as much as I’m yours.” He shrugs self-consciously, but notices that the angel still looks like he’s got something to say. “What’s up, man?”

              “No, I . . .  It’s nothing. My apologies, I’ve detained you here long enough.” When Dean opens his mouth to protest, Castiel adds pointedly, “Your brother is probably worrying about you, and we’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

              Dean raises an eyebrow. _Well played, sir._ He decides to humor Cas and play along.  

              “Yeah, you’re right. That’s enough chick flick moments for one afternoon. If we keep this up, we’re both going to grow a pair of tits. Can you imagine? Jesus Chri – er, crochets,” Dean backwards hastily when he spies the indignant look brimming in Cas’s stormy eyes. “Um, Jesus crochets . . . fuzzy blue socks, um, every Tuesday.”

              Judging by his stony expression, not even Castiel is impressed by that fumbled save.

             Dean scowls at the angel, but this time, it lacks any real heat. “Whatever, feathers. It’s time to blow this Popsicle stand.”

              Just as Dean makes to grab the door handle, Castiel’s hand suddenly shoots forward to cradle the back of his elbow, halting Dean’s process.

             “I believe you are forgetting something,” Castiel says, voice gone stiff and disapproving, as his eyes land pointedly on the crook of Dean’s right forearm, where the Mark stands naked for all the world to see, blazing red like a fresh wound.

              “Oh. Erm. Right,” Dean replies hesitantly, internally berating himself for making such a careless mistake while at the same time glancing nervously at Cas, waiting for the stern lecture on why making deals with demons – any demons, even Knights of Hell who keep bees and shuck corn – is classified as a Very Bad Idea. It’s just that when he’s with Castiel – any version of Cas – it’s seemingly too easy to forget that he’s not some clean, special thing. He allows himself to forget that he’s just an alcoholic hunter with a bellyful of daddy issues and a grudge against Heaven and Hell, desperate enough to make a deal with the Father of Murder to take out a demon with super juice. “I’m guessing you know what it is?” Dean says hesitantly as he grabs his jacket from the coat hanger and slips it on, rolling down the sleeves since he finds himself unable to meet the angel’s eyes.

              To Dean’s great surprise (not), the angel answers with an affirmative, words sharp and clipped. “I never glimpsed Cain’s Mark with my own eyes, but I remember well the vast devastation Lucifer’s lieutenant meted out with his faithful sword. Many of my brothers and sisters lost their lives to the Knight . . .” Castiel falls in reminiscent silence, his gaze distant and pointed at something in the middle distance, like he’s no longer seeing Dean and the four walls around him, but epic battles of eons past. Eventually his gaze returns to Dean’s, pinning him down with a penetrative stare. "I can only assume that, for whatever reason you deemed valid enough, you took on the burden of the Mark so that you too may wield the First Blade as Cain once did.”

            Picking at a stray thread on the belt loop of his jeans, Dean mutters lowly, “You wouldn’t be wrong.”

            Castiel lets loose an aggravated sigh, palming his forehead until little wrinkles break out across the skin. “Even by your exceptional standards, Dean, this was an incredibly ill-conceived idea.”

          “Don’t spare my feelings, Cas,” Dean taunts, bristling from the under-handed remark and all in all fed up with being treated like a small child. “You can say ‘stupid.’”

           If the angel were a bit more like the human Castiel, he would probably be rolling his eyes right now. “Now you’re just being a brat.” When Dean refuses to raise to the bait, Cas growls in frustration. “I don’t understand, Dean. Did your time in Hell teach you nothing of the consequences of making deals with demons? Just . . . _why_?”

           Squaring his shoulders, Dean replies, “Because, Cas, the world didn’t stop trying to off itself with the Apocalypse. Every time Sam and I turn around, there’s some new Big Bad on the horizon that wants to rule the planet until every human is either enslaved or gobbled up. It’s our job to kick them in the ass, you know that. Usually it’s Sam that has to shoulder the burden, but now it’s my turn to step up to bat. The only way I can stop this demon named Abaddon – another freakin’ Knight of Hell, Cas! – from taking over Hell and then overrunning the world with demons is by using the blade to carve her up like a Christmas ham.”

            Castiel continues to eye him dubiously. “Let me guess,” he rumbles out in a weary voice. “You’ve given no serious thought to any of the impending consequences.”

            Dean just shrugs. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Probably just in time for another major crisis to crop up.”

            “And my . . . he . . . the _other one_ . . .  is okay with this? Unless . . . he doesn’t know?” Castiel says, shrewdly inspecting Dean’s sheepish expression.

            “It’s not a secret,” Dean admits reluctantly. “Technically. I mean . . . Sam knows, and for now, that’s good enough. Cas has enough on his plate without adding my own problems.”

            Castiel sighs as he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat, but for the first time it sounds more sad and defeated than exasperated. He stares in the general direction of the exit, but his eyes are unfocused, distant. “The Apocalypse was supposed to eventually usher in a millennia of peace and prosperity on Earth,” the angel says quietly, and for a moment Dean can’t see where this is headed. “Yet you say your life has only become more grueling over the years. How can you be sure you made the correct choice in derailing Armageddon?”

            Smiling softly to himself, Dean is secretly awed by how far this Castiel will go in the coming months, and is almost disappointed that he won’t be there to see it, not as he is now anyway. “That’s the thing about free will, Cas. Sometimes you have to choose: peace or freedom.”

            Castiel finally meets Dean’s gaze, tilting his head to the side. “Sage words,” he comments, tone inscrutable.

             Dean outright chuckles at the irony. _And now we’ve come full circle._ “A wise man once told me that.” He slides a cheeky look at Cas, smirking. “Probably a smart idea if you’d listen to him.”

             The pointed remark flies so far over Castiel’s head it lands somewhere on the ceiling. “Everything is so different now

              Dean’s hand is halfway to Cas’s shoulder before he remembers, gripping his fist tightly as he reluctantly pulls it back. “It’s a brave new world, Cas,” he says instead. “You think you’re ready?”

             In response - or possibly avoidance - Castiel turns to Dean, hand raised with his middle and pointer finger outstretched.

            “Woah, woah, watch it there, hot hands!” Dean yelps, batting away Castiel’s advancing fingers and narrowly ducking just in time to avoid getting his eye poked out. “Dude, what’re you doing?”

             Hesitantly lowering his hand, Cas answers like even a dumb human like Dean should recognize the gesture. “I’m taking you back to your brother.”

            “Cas, we’re like literally forty yards away. Come on, lazy ass,” Dean says as he opens the door, walking out, “you can make the walk. If you don’t, all that angel-food cake is gonna to go straight to your thighs, and then where will you be? That’s right, with a gym membership you’ll never use and your fat pants becoming your everyday pants.”  

             “ _Lord grant me a fraction of your strength and patience, for I am in great need_ ,” Dean hears the angel mutter behind him as he follows obediently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is super-short, but if I don't post it, I was going to feel like I wasted an entire month, and I'm sick and tired of staring at it and second-guessing everything I write. So essentially this is part one of the chapter I had originally planned on writing. With any luck, chapter 7 (part 2) should come out much more quickly (a much better chapter with more of the Castiels in the same room, humor, and best of all, Jealous!Cas. The chapter after that (chapter 8) will be the smutty chapter. I'm so sorry, everyone, for all this bullshit! Work is kicking my butt right now. (Also, once Nine of a Kind is completely done, I might see if I can go back and just slap part one and two together)
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely people still putting up with my shit. I would greatly appreciate it if you went back and reclicked the kudos button if you did it with the original copy (I had 109 kudos and everyone meant so much to me!!!)
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated (even if it's just to say I gave everyone a freakin heartattack)
> 
> Come say hi at my tumblr: i-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs


	7. If I'm Castiel, and You're Castiel, Then Who is Flying this Plane?? Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know I’m going to regret this . . .” Dean starts slowly, eyes slipping closed briefly, “but why?”
> 
> Misha shrugs idly, rubbing a finger against his Sharpied on ‘stache. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. Can you guys believe Nine of a Kind is over 50k?? And we still have so long to go . . .  
> To all my returnees, welcome back. Thank you so much for coming back despite all the madness of last month ^w^ Thank you to everyone, really, for putting up with my sporadic (and incredibly late, so, so late) updates. Bless you and your cow.  
> So I know this chapter is short, but bare in mind it was supposed to be combined with the last chapter until time got away from me. It's also UNEDITED, I'll come back this weekend to spruce everything up.  
> WARNING: Implications of suicidal thoughts from one of the Castiels

            Good news is that during Dean’s extended absence, the doppelgangers have stowed away the Twister mat and have not started up a company softball team, joined a bowling league, or even created a knitting club to whittle away their spare hours.

            Bad news is . . . well, Dean supposes he’s about to find out. Nothing good can come about from parking all the clones together in the cramped confines of the library with nothing but some musty books to divert their attention. It’s like throwing dry tinder near a sparking fire, and Dean wonders what Sam bribed them with to spend a second night combing through the library for a solution to the medallion.

             No one immediately take notice of Dean as he and Angel Castiel stroll on up all casual-like, so he takes the few precious seconds of quiet to sweep his gaze over the disconcertingly domestic scene. Even in a room filled to the rafters with his spitting-image doppelgangers, Dean’s eyes zero in immediately onto the real Cas, dark gray t-shirt rumpled and hair slightly mused, his mouth tight with pale lavender shadows hanging heavy under his drooping eyes as he intently peruses the musty old tome on the table, nose hanging a scant few inches from the text. As Dean watches, a scowl screws up the corner of Castiel’s face, making him look he’s sucking on a lemon, clearly disappointed and frustrated by whatever it is he’s not finding within the pages. It makes Dean smile, but more than that it makes him want to sidle in close behind Cas, impulsively overstep their established boundaries to nose at the hair curling at the back of Cas's neck while he whispers into the taut, tanned skin, _You’re gonna go blind if you press your face to the pages like that, man. Ease back a little, you don’t want to wind up being some dweeb in a pair of Harry Potter specs, do ya?_

              The rest of the mirror-doubles orbit around Cas, spread out among the two table pushed together, though Cas himself seems to be the only one putting any real effort into his work. Perhaps Emmanuel is the only exception, sitting like he has a yardstick stapled to his spine with his hands placed neatly on his lap while his eyes scrawl slowly across the pages, missing nothing from the book placed in front of him. Incredibly, the amnesiac healer seems to be smiling softly, his lips quirked, as though he enjoys whatever menial task has been set before him. Probably just happy to be useful, idle hands are the Devil’s playthings and all that jazz.

              The remaining three doppelgangers are being, well, productive in anything other than research. Either due to copious amounts of alcohol or just plain boredom, Future Cas is passed out in his chair, mud-caked boots kicked up onto the table _(_ which _Dean_ will have to clean later ‘cause God knows no one else will) with his arms folded across his scrawny chest, head lolled to the side to rest on his shoulder. A quarter-empty bottle of whiskey on the table seems to be the only thing he’s even touched all night, judging by the single closed book tossed carelessly beside the bottle. Little snores escape his chapped lips in breathy whistles every so often, the exact same snores Dean has heard from the present Castiel, and it makes something burn unexpectedly warm and protective in the space beneath Dean’s ribcage. Of course, the feeling is tarnished by the unpleasant pricklings of worry: after their impromptu midnight tête-à-tête, did Future Cas actually manage to grab a few hours of sleep, or did he spend the rest of the night with one eye open and a hand on his knife, expecting black-eyed zombies to overrun the bunker and drag him back to Hell on Earth?

            Thin ropes of string are scattered in a multicolored mess on the floor, because for whatever reason Crazy Cas had elected to opt out of a chair and plop his butt down on the cold wooden floor, legs crossed Indian-style. It takes Dean a moment to figure out what this Cas is doing, why he’s folding and creasing pages of colored paper, sticking the tip of his pink tongue out of the corner of his mouth like a little kid as he stares intently at his task with the upmost concentration, but then Dean sees the dozens of small animal-like shapes scattered around Crazy Cas, and at least three have found a home on near Charlie’s, Sam’s, and Castiel’s wrists and elbows. One little green thing that might be frog even sticks its head out from Sam's shirt pocket.

            As for Misha, the troublesome shit, he’s occupied himself with the arduous task of folding up trashed pages of notebook paper into paper airplanes, his leg jiggling up and down with impatience. Every so often his knee bumps against the table with a hard jolt, earning the actor a scowl that promises a slow and painful death, courtesy of one Sam Winchester. Several dozen of Misha’s failed previous attempts litter the floor in crumpled heaps, but judging by the unholy gleam of anticipation twinkling in Misha’s eye and the furtive flickering of his gaze, this next one seems to be charted to smash into Sam’s shaggy head. Someone must have forgotten not to feed Misha after midnight.

          Like the rest of the Castiel’s, neither Sam nor Charlie seem to be half as intent in their research as Cas is, although they at least play at looking like they give a fuck to the untrained eye – every few minutes or so Sam will flip a page, but his gaze remains fixed on the same middle spot in front of him, drooping eyes blank. Charlie’s back is to Dean so that he can clearly see the screen of her laptop and the little figures that run around in a colorful CGI landscape as Charlie sweeps her fingers across the keys with dexterous speed. Maybe Moondoor has expanded from LARPing to an online platform.

            Thanks to his handy-dandy hunter superpowers of perception, Dean registers all of this within the space of mere seconds before the lull of quiet is broken. It’s the original Castiel that sees him first, glancing up when he hears their footsteps echoing off the walls before his gaze flickers immediately back down, as though it’s a reflexive habit he’s picked up over the last few hours, checking for Dean at every sound and corner-of-the-eye movement as he waited, a habit that, up ‘til now, had always ended in disappointment. But Cas does a swift double-take when he sees Dean and his sheepish grin, blue eyes widening and mouth popping open.

             Then those eyes flicker to focus behind Dean, and Cas’s gaze narrows into a rather mean, slitty-eyed stare.

            “Dean.” That single word – his name – is not quite stated as an exclamation, the surprise tampered down by an edge of waxing anger. “You’re safe.”

            “What? Yeah, I mean – ‘course I am. And by the looks of things, it looks like I made it back just in time for the scout meeting,” Dean drawls as he saunters on in, hands stuffed in his pockets, subtlety rolling back his shoulders to loosen his tight muscles and keep his stance slack and casual. Exuding nothing more than a slightly buzzed state after returning from a day spent at some scuzzy hole-in-the-wall. Yep, everything’s hunkey-dorey here, he certainly didn’t just wake up from a mini-coma after being fucked hard by a gooey nightmare monster wearing his best friend’s face, and that’s definitely not a chill zipping up his spine from just thinking vaguely about it. Reluctantly, Dean admits to himself that it was maybe possibly a good call on Angel Castiel’s part to fog up Dean’s memories. Sam and the real Castiel mean well, he knows they do, but they’re both over-bearing bastards who have no aversion whatsoever to sticking their noses in Dean’s business. No way could Dean have kept up this charade if he’d remembered, and they would been like white on rice the minute Dean’s composure cracked. To be perfectly honest, even now he’s not up for the nag-fest he can sense his brother and his angel gearing up for, ready to read Dean the riot act. So, yeah, kudos to Angel Cas for thinking proactively, not that that the smug dick needs the pat on the back. Maybe later, if he’s a good little angel, Dean will slip him one of the burgers Jimmy didn’t eat.

            Speaking of Constantine-with-Wings, Angel Castiel is standing so close to Dean you’d think he’d spontaneously sprouted a goddamn second shadow. Dean resists the urge to elbow the clingy angel in the stomach; the guy’s already trodden on his heels _twice_. “Feathers here met me at the door and, um, told me you guys were getting all warm and cozy in here. Now which of you lazy assholes is going to pull me up a chair?”

             “You can get it yourself, you inconsiderate dick. Nice of you to finally show up,” is the charming greeting Sam addresses him with, but the insult loses most of its vitriol by the way Sam’s broad shoulders visibly slump, forehead smoothing, the tension draining out him. Dean hides a smile. While things between Dean and his brother might not exactly be sunshine and blueberry pie at the moment, it’s good to know that at least Sam is relieved Dean isn’t face-down in a ditch somewhere. That doesn’t stop the prissy drama queen from giving a good show at being supremely miffed – though to be fair, Dean kind of deserves the bitchface. “Was at all possible for you to have picked a less inconvenient time to throw a hissy fit out so you could spend all day getting your diva ass drunk in some dive bar – OW! _What the fuck, asshole_?” Sam snaps as he bats away the kamikaze paper airplane that just barely even grazed his cheek, now swooping off in an abrupt right turn to crash to the floor. “You nearly took my eye out!”

            “The key word in that sentence is ‘nearly,’ Not-Jared,” Misha retorts mildly before turning to look at Dean, who is only now noticing the . . . well, frankly it looks like Misha, in a fit of boredom, Sharpied a black mustache onto his upper lip, curly end and all. “Oh, thank _fuck_ you’re back, Not-Jensen. It’s sooooo _dull_ here without you,” he whines, voice pitched higher than Dean thinks Castiel’s could ever achieve. It grates on his nerves like nails on chalkboard, and Dean resists the urge to plug his fingers in his ears until the actor shuts the hell up. “I’m losing my mind here! I’ve had to resort to some pretty drastic measures to stave off the inexorable march towards crippling insanity.”

            “Doesn’t look like it’s done you any good,” Dean replies bluntly, eyes still glued to Misha’s defaced upper lip.  

            Clearly unfazed by Dean’s snide comment, Misha sneaks a furtive glance over both shoulders (even though he commands everyone’s attention now, which Dean has a sneaking suspicion Collins is not only aware of but also thoroughly enjoying) before leaning across the table to speak to Dean in a conspiratorial, exaggerated whisper, “ _I ate three raw eggs while you were gone_. _Straight from the shell.”_

Dean opens his mouth, pauses, ‘cause no way he heard that right. Then he looks away and blinks once, twice, because, nope, scratch that. He did, unfortunately.

“I know I’m going to regret this . . .” Dean starts slowly, eyes slipping closed briefly, “but _why_?”

            Misha shrugs idly, rubbing a finger along the curve of his Sharpied on ‘stache. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

             “Dude, I think insanity is the least of your problems,” Dean remarks flatly. For good measure he adds, “That all sounds . . . ab-so- _lutely_ disgusting, by the way.”

            “Oh, it was,” Misha agrees breezily, unperturbed by the face Sam is making behind him. “It was actually a whole lot worse than I was expecting. Not to mention that was after I asked Manny to pour the ranch dressing on my face.”

            “I refused, of course,” Emmanuel chimes in, primly tugging at the sleeves of his cardigan. “The dressing was still good for at least another week. It would have been a waste.”

Blinking dazedly, Dean is saved having to come up with a suitable response – or better yet, imagining such a scene – by an obnoxious, drawn-out yawn.

            “Heard you skipped town on us,” Future Cas calls out groggily as he rubs the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles, yawning again widely for his jaw to audibly pop.

            “Nope, looks like you’re all stuck with me,” Dean replies with feigned nonchalance, addressing his words to Future Cas but unable to stop himself from stealing a peak at his Castiel, who has overcome his surprise and is now rising from his chair to make his way towards Dean, eyes still latch onto Dean as though expecting him to turn tail and make a run for it if Cas dares to blink. “Besides, wouldn’t want to miss your little pow-wow. We roasting s’mores later?”

           “Well, you always were the patron saint of lost causes,” Future Cas mutters sardonically, looking away from Dean’s scowl to pour another generous helping of whiskey into his coffee mug.  “Looks like I owe Dmitri here twenty bucks, though . . . Ooooh, sorry, buddy,” the scruffy man says with poorly dressed-up apology as he turns to the actor. “I must have left my wallet in my other pair of pants back in the other 2014. Rain check?”

            Before Dean can voice his indignation, Charlie reaches across the table, smacking Future Cas where his hand creeps towards one of the dusty tomes. “Hey, you. What have we told you before? No using the millennia-old books for rolling papers."

              “You’re no fun,” Future Cas grumbles, lightly shaking his hand as he pull back to sulk in his chair. But then his gaze turns speculative, his long fingers scratching at the scruff of his chin as his stares openly at Charlie, much to her obvious discomfort. With a toothy, schoolboy smirk that can only be described as flirty (and yeah, Cas and flirty in the same sentence is still too weird of a concept for Dean), Cas leans forward, the dark bangs of his hair falling forward to partially cover his eyes. “You know, ginger,” he begins slowly in his smoke-roughed rasp, “I can think of a few ways we can better spend our finite time together. If you're up for something more . . . diverting, you and I could take this shindig back to my room and –”

            Dean actually winces, and he swears he can hear Sam breathe in a single long note, “ _Ooooo.”_

"Oh don't worry," Future Cas says. "You guys are invited too."

             But Charlie’s got the situation well in hand, coolly holding up her finger, pert nose scrunching up in disgust. “Ew. No, no, just - just don’t. Seriously gross, dude. You’re totally barking up the wrong tree.”

            “Not to mention her girlfriend will shove her boot so far up your ass you’ll be tasting leather for weeks,” Sam pipes up, the giant moose baby still touching his pinkened cheek tenderly like he’s expecting his entire face to fall off.

            Not looking at all the least bit abashed, Future Cas just shrugs in disinterest, his attention already drifting back to his mug sitting on the table. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he says placidly before taking a hearty swig from his Irish coffee. “It’s not like you’ve left me with my usual distractions,” he mutters, and Dean uneasily detects a mutinous note to Cas’s raspy voice.

            “Kindly cease trying, then,” the original Castiel mutters grumpily as he gives up all pretenses of patiently waiting for his turn and instead shoulders his way past his doppelgangers, a flush of crimson spreading across his face as his gaze flickers to Charlie in remorseful apology. Dean grimaces in a show of sympathy – Jeez Louise, but for Cas this must be like having every single one of your embarrassing relatives over for Christmas dinner, and Future Cas is quickly making his way for the part of Creepy Uncle who starts getting handsy after one-too-many cups of eggnog.

             "Too bad Jimmy got shore leave. At least he would have been good for a laugh. Must be nice being teacher's pet," Future Cas mutters darkly, but everyone ignores him, except Emmanuel, who frowns down at his lap.

            “Dean, I –” Castiel begins as he finally gets to Dean, face anxious and concerned, only to be cut off by Crazy Cas flooshing up off the floor to Dean’s side, apparently forgetting he has a pair of perfectly working legs.

            “Jesus, Cas, could ya cool it on the zapping, you’re gonna give me a complex –”

            “Dean, you’ve returned!” Crazy Cas blithely trods right over Dean’s admonition, words running into each other as the angel babbles a mile a minute, hardly pausing for air. “Sam and Miss Bradbury assured me that you would eventually, that you had only left for a moment, but I kept thinking, ‘Well, it’s entirely possible you realized we – but in this case, it’s mostly _I_ , isn’t it? – would only tie you down. You don’t need our baggage, we’re quite heavy and not very travel-friendly. And of course I don’t blame you for running away from us, it’s a fair response. I certainly don’t trust the look of that one with the fuzzy sweater – _he seems unbalanced_ ," C.C stage-whispers to Dean from behind his hand.

            “What? No, no, Cas,” Dean rushes, glancing helplessly at the sane Castiel but finding no help in his friend’s tight expression. “Jeez, it’s not like that –”

            But Crazy Cas isn’t listening, his gaze only making eye contact with Dean’s every few seconds before skittering away to flitter about his nervous hands, and that goddamn vapid smile remains plastered on his face, despite the cheerfully-voiced self-deprecation tumbling uncontrollably from his mouth. “But look! I then had the idea that I could make these paper animals –” and here Cas reaches deep into his trench coat pockets, fishing out a lurid black and yellow thing that flops in Cas's hand – “so just in case you did decide to return, I would have a present for you, a small trinket that I hoped you would like.” Cas finally glances up at Dean through his dark eyelashes, hope peeking through his expression. “Th-then everything would be fine and go back to the way it was and you wouldn’t be angry at me anymore.”

             “Whoa! Cas, Cas, just – just hold up a sec, buddy will ya,” Dean says quickly, reaching out to fit his hand in the cradle of the befuddled angel’s shoulder, but instantly releases him when Crazy Cas jerks in surprise like he’s been electrocuted, flashing Dean those timorous deer-caught-in-headlights eyes that Dean can’t help but despise just a little. They’re so un-Cas-like. Shoving his hand back into his jeans’ pockets to prevent himself from making the same mistake again, Dean inwardly curses, admonishing himself for forgetting that this Cas needs to be handled with kids gloves, like he’s something fragile and easily shattered, even though he’s already broken . . . “Calm down, buddy, I . . . Christ, no, it was nothing like that, I wasn’t _ditching_ you," he implores, "I just . . .  needed to go, er, get some fresh air.” He ignores Sam’s derisive snort while fervently hoping Angel Cas looming behind him keeps his piehole shut and plays along.

              “But the Impala is still parked in the garage,” Original Castiel cuts in sharply, scrutinizing Dean with blatant suspicion. Which, to be perfectly honest, Dean finds more than a little offense because between the two of them, Cas is the one who would be awarded the title ‘Most Likely to Be Caught Sneaking Around’ (no, the Mark doesn’t count ‘cause Dean still plans on coming clean with Cas. And soon too. Like really, _really_ soon).

               More or less cornered into whipping a cover-story out of his ass – Shit, why didn’t he bother coming up with one before? – Dean retorts with, “No shit, Sherlock. I wasn’t gonna drive my Baby two miles into town just for a beer and bite to eat. She needed a rest anyway.”

              “. . . You left your _Baby_ behind?”

              It’s at this point that Cas levels Dean with a squinty look of supreme disbelief, the one that quite clearly reads  _Detecting high levels of bullshit_. Dean, on the other hand, digs his heels in and prepares to go down swinging.

              “’Cause I wanted fresh air,” Dean reminds him pointedly.

              “So you needed fresh air for eight hours,” Castiel states, in a voice so flat the words don’t have a chance in hell at becoming a question, just an accusation.

              In a momentarily lapse of pretense, Dean blinks in surprise. _I was out for_ how _long now?_ Surely he couldn’t have been in that godforsaken room with Leviathan for longer than an hour or so, maybe an hour and a half, give or take a quarter of an hour . . . right?

            “So . . . you don’t want it, then?” a timid voice presses hesitantly, already drooping towards the end in expected rejection. Momentarily forgotten by Dean, Castiel’s looney tunes doppelganger fidgets on the spot, shoulders hunched inward protectively, his hands wringing, casting anxious, wide-eyed between the two. His smile is wilting by the second, becoming less certain, and Crazy Cas looks like he’s on verge of having either a panic attack or a full-blown nervous breakdown. It makes Dean anxious just looking at him, get the little guy a paper bag or something.

              And because Dean’s shithead streak is on a roll today, his mouth goes off before he thinks. “Want what?” By the time Dean’s brain decides to get its act together, Cas is already pulling his trembling hand back, bottom lip quavering and eyes suspiciously bright. “Oh! Oh, you mean the, um, paper thing, No, I – Wait, Cas, I mean –”

              “No, i-it’s fine, Dean, you really don’t have to if you don’t –”

             “Waitwaitwait, yes, I mean, _yes_.” Before he can royally fuck this up any more than he already has, Dean offers up his palm to the angel, sleeve rolled back just enough to reveal his pale wrist, peppered with the constellations of freckles he’s had since he was small. “Bedazzle me up, Martha Stuart.”

             Body posture still reticent and cagey, Cas doesn’t immediately step forward, instead choosing to continue eying Dean warily like a starving dog expecting to be slapped for begging for table scraps, and Dean has to forcefully bite his tongue to keep his simmering impatience in check. The seconds stretch long and tense before Crazy Cas finally shuffles forward, slippers dragging across the floor, to take his little creature and plop it into Dean's hand.

            The black and yellow paper is folded into the unmistakable shape of a bee, fat and round. It even has wings and a little stinger.

            And Dean Winchester feels his heart melt to form a warm, gooey puddle on the floor.

            “A gesture of solidarity, huh?” Dean echoes, lips quirking wistfully as he traces a finger along the folded wings.

             “I saved that one for you,” Crazy Cas murmurs shyly, a pleased grin slowly forming on his lips, and to Dean, it’s better than the bee, or hell, even a million bucks. It's real, unforced. “As bees are the noblest of God’s creatures, self-sacrificing and brave, and I though it fitting for you to bear their image.”

             “Now your outfit for the ball is complete, Dean.” Sam interjects from the table, smirking like the smug asshole he is. “Charlie’s prettiest handmaiden.”

             Heat blooms across Dean’s face, and his first instinct is to toss the bee across and pretend it never existed, but for once he has the foresight to hold his tongue and swallow back the defensive retort in deference to Cas’s feelings. Instead he slips the bee safely into his jacket pocket and throws over his shoulder casually, “Bitch, you’re just jealous ‘cause I’m still the good-looking brother.”

           Sam snorts. “You just keep telling yourself that, Rapunzel.”

           Dean only allows himself a small moment to indulge in the hurt that stings at him when the expected _jerk_ fails to make an appearance, before packing it up it shoving it back down in that corner inside him. 

           “Oh, I apologize, Sam,” Crazy Cas says without a hint of sarcasm. “If you don’t like the one I made, it would be my pleasure to make you another one.  I’m sure I saw a very nice salmon-toned bead.” Cas chuckles to himself. “It’s it curious that you humans should see fit to name a color after a fish in this language. But why is there no Bee color? Kangaroo? Jackrabbit . . .?” Dean sees it as it happens, how Cas’s eyes become unfocused, the light behind them dimming.

            It’s at that moment that Charlie appears at Cas’s side, mindful not to startle him unnecessarily. She gently gets his attention before placing a comforting hand on his arm.

            “How about you come back with me, huh, Cas?” Charlie coaxes, looping her arm underneath Cas’s and gently leading him away. “I’ll help you make some wicked patterns for your bracelets.”

            Still smiling vaguely, Cas murmurs, “T-thank you, Miss Bradbury. Yes, I think I would very much like to go visit the bees now."

            Charlie laughs brightly, hiding her nerves well, their interlocked arms brushing against each other. “I told you, you can call me Charlie, sweet. Or you know, Queen of Moons, if it’s not too much.”   

            Dean cocks an eyebrow as he watches Cas blush furiously, smiling shyly; Dean connects the dots easily. Looks like Dorothy is going to have a little competition in her hands with Crazy Cas for Charlie’s affections. At least the little dork didn’t imprint on a psychotic demon this time, for fuck sakes.

            At the far end of the table, Future Cas rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure when he does it, it’s considered cute. When _I_ do it, I’m called ‘creepy’ and ‘inappropriate. _Pphtt_.’” 

            “Dean, may I _please_ speak with you for a moment?” original Castiel pushes testily in his scratchy voice, his patience looking to be about near the breaking point.

            “Yeah, sure thing, Cas,” Dean answers easily, waiting.

            But Cas only shifts his gaze to a point just beyond Dean’s shoulder, his gaze narrowing back to that mistrustful glower.

            “In _private_ , I meant.”

             “That will be unnecessary,” Angel Castiel interjects before Dean can even get in a reply, speaking for for the first time. “Anything you need to say in front of Dean, you can say in front of me.”

            Cas’s upper lip twitches in a subtle motion, a ripple that disturbs his previously smooth expression, and Dean swears his friend is all of five seconds away from tackling his angelic double to the floor. And yeah, Dean allows himself to briefly indulge in the frankly hilarious mental image of Cas pulling his double into a headlock and giving him a noogie, like Dean used to Sam when he was being a brat. But when Cas glances at Dean, fists clenching, Dean realizes the fully-powered angel isn’t the only one on Cas’s shit list.

            Cas backs down, but only grudgingly. “ _Fine_. This won’t take long anyway. Unless of courses Dean decides to walk out again with whatever asinine excuse catches his fancy this time."

            The frigid coolness to Cas’s voice takes Dean aback, puts him instantly on the defensive. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Cas . . . What bug's crawled up your ass and died this time?”

            “I believe it’s common name is Dean Winchester’s Inability to Answer His Cell Phone,” Castiel snarks back without missing a beat, and somehow Dean has managed to trap himself in a pit without even knowing he had lost his footing.

             “Ooh, sick burn,” Dean quips in response. “Do you pen all your own comebacks or do you have Sam help you?”

            “Keep me out of this, please,” Sam calls from the table. Dean thinks he hears his brother covertly mutter, “ _Stupid lovers’ spats_ ,” and makes a mental note to put Nair in Sam’s shampoo later, super glue the keyboard of on his laptop, and cut off the legs of his jeans until Sam has nothing to wear but short-shorts.

            Dean continues, “What do you want me to say, Cas? I lost track of the time, got to chatting up with some locals. It's really not as big a deal as you're seem hell-bent on making it be.”

             “It is when Bartholomew’s fraction is on the war path and Gadreel  remains at large,” Castiel retorts heatedly. “How can I protect you when you willfully decide to leave the safety of the bunker for every whim without having the decency to warm us?”

            “Who am I, Martha Stewart? I'm not on house-arrest and I  don’t need a freakin’ babysitter, Cas!”

           The eye roll he gets in response grates against his tattered nerves, taking the last damn straw and breaking it over Dean's knee. “You know what? I don’t need to get the fifth degree from you, Judge Judy. The bar had shitty food, and I’m hungry enough to go Wendigo.”

           Without another word, Dean starts forward to brush past Castiel, not above bumping their shoulders harder than perhaps necessary, but Cas whips around to latch his hand around Dean – not on his shoulder, as they usually do, but encircling Dean’s wrist, Cas’s thumb brushing against the thin skin there. Cas probably doesn’t even realize how intimate the gesture is, how it’s not the same as gripping the bicep or forearm, but it’s enough to catch Dean off guard, make him pause, although he’s still pissed enough to contemplate clocking the handsy angel in the nose.

            “Dean, please,” Cas implores, visibly trying to turn his tone away from combative, eyes wide and so very blue. “I’m not trying to antagonize you, honestly, it’s just I . . ." He sighs, and the shadows under Cas's eyes have never looked darker. "I don't know - _felt_ like something was wrong. But then I waited for you to come home and but you never did, and he -" He jerks his chin at the fully-powered angel "- refused to tell us where you went. And when you came in you didn’t look okay, Dean, you look _haunted_ –"

            “Perhaps it would be wise for you to take a step back.”

            Cas’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline, gobsmacked and frowning at Angel Cas as he advances forward like he had forgotten his doppelganger was there. "Excuse me?"

            “Release Dean or lose your hand.” From the depths of the tenchcoat’s sleeve, the angel blade materializes to land in the Castiel’s curled palm. “Your choice.”

           So of course, Cas does the exact opposite and holds onto Dean's wrist tighter, and it would hurt if he still had his grace. Before Dean can even form a protest, Cas is sidestepping to place himself between Dean and his angelic doppelganger, shoulders stiff and chin lifting in defiance. "Or what? You'll stab _yourself_? I'm sure "

           "Oh, for fuck sakes," Dean groans, rolling his eyes at Cas's back. "Not this shit again."

            "I would prefer it if you kept a distance away from Dean," Angel Castiel asserts coolly as he streamrolls over Dean. "Your volatile emotions are clearly making you unstable."

             Cas puffs his chest out indignantly, nostrils flaring. "What exactly are you implying?"

             "That being human has made you a risk factor," is the brutally blunt response, cold enough to freeze the air in the room.

             When only seconds ago Cas has been staring his clone down with a implacable expression and arched eyebrow, his expression has crumpled to something openly raw, like he's been winded by an unexpected blow, the angel's words apparently striking a sensitive chord.

             "Okay, that's enough," Dean decides firmly, officially over being regulated to the side-lines and stepping between the two. He glances at Cas, but doesn't even need to even ask, just meet Cas's gaze long enough enough that it earns him a small nod, through the tight frown remains prominent. Then Dean turns to the angel. "Castiel, I thought you said we weren't going to be discussing this again -" he begins pointedly.

             " _That's_ what you've been doing?" Cas says from behind Dean. 

              "Yes," the angel answers before Dean can stop him, glaring belligerently at Cas.

              And then they're at it again.

             “Hey, now – just – let’s all just chill out, put your dicks away and we can end this pissing match – _hey_ , I said –!" But it’s useless, Dean can’t get a word in edge-wise, the two just snapping at each other despite Dean keeping them separated with a hand on each chest. A distance he can feel shrinking as Angel Cas, solid like a redwood tree, inches forward. “Would you all just shut the hell up for – Wait, dude, what - _I really don't think your hands need to go there!!_ ”

              Because what else do you say when a deranged tv star blithely comes swooping in, making spitty airplane noises as he molds his hands to Dean's pecks, brushing against his nipples. Little dude’s stronger than he looks, because he has no trouble pulling Dean with him as he pedals backwards, still making airplane noises, away from the bickering angels. 

              He pauses just long enough to whisper, "Can it, Jen, Cas can handle himself, trust me," in Dean's ear before continuing the obnoxious sounds.

              Cas and Castiel are toe-to-toe (and perfectly eye-to-eye) now, and it was one thing to pull Cas back from the brink before he could tear Gadreel a new asshole, but this is different, Dean realizes abruptly. "You know what, fine, whatever. Let those two jackasses snark each other to death. Just move your freakin' hands!"

              Cas is practically snarling at his doppelganger now, and Dean's lost the thread of the conversation, so it's a surprise when Cas growls out, “I might never be able to make up for my mistakes, but at least I own up to them. Can you you'll do the same when the day arrives, seraph?” Cas pulls back by a hair, gaze going cool. “You have a long journey ahead of you, Castiel, so don't you dare question where my priorities in regard to Dean lay."

              “You’re _wrong_ ,” Castiel hisses lowly, the grip on his blade tightening. His sneer is derisive. “I won’t doom myself to make your mistakes. There must be another way.”

             “So you admit that the future is not set in stone?” Cas asks pointedly, and Dean has no idea how he can sound so damn smug, like Castiel has just argued his point for him, when the angel is talking about changing the course of history so nonchalantly.

           Dean wildly thinks that a whistling tea pot should be going off in perfect, clichéd timing, the rising tension is thicker than mud, nearing its peak.

            A dark shape slips past on the edges of Dean’s peripheral, and before Dean can catch him by the sleeve of his threadbare army jacket, Future Cas is casually sliding himself between the two other Castiel staring daggers at each other, orientating himself so that his chest brushes against Angel Cas’s, fitting like a perfect match despite the external differences.  

            “Methinks the angel doth protest too much,” the hippie doppelganger drawls out in his raspy growl, heavy-lidded eyes at half-mast.

 _What the hell?_ Dean dares to take his eyes off the doppelgangers just long enough to check the table, and yep, Future Cas’s bottle of whiskey is completely empty and abandoned, the chipped coffee mug lying on its side. When Dean turns back to them, Future Cas is now walking a finger up Angel Castiel’s chest, his other hand playing with the end of the blue tie.

            “Look at you, stiff as a board, and not in the fun way,” the fallen human says in a soft voice that’s like a coo, lips pulling up into a teasing smirk.

           Bells, whistles, sirens – the whole shebang are going off in Dean’s head. Shaking off Misha’s grip, he eases forward, palms raised in supplication “Cas . . .” he warns, but he’s not even sure who it’s directed at anymore. The original Cas backs off slowly anyway, smart enough to get out of the line of fire, his expression tense as he warily watches his two clones. His eyes flicker once to Dean, mirroing the surprise and caution that surely must be on Dean's face. “You’re playing with fire, man. . . .”

            But Future Cas only glances at him with a sly, tipsy smile, blue eyes hazy beneath his long bangs, as if to say,  _That’s the whole point, Dean. Live a little, find your inner animal_ and all that hippy-dippy crap.

            To the angel, he continues with, “Bottling up all those suffocating emotions, you’ll blow a gasket. You need to learn how to balance it out, go with the flow. Release some steam,  _if you know what I mean_.” That voice like liquid smoke halts as Future Cas pauses, smiling until his nose crinkles as though he’s just realized he made a rhyme. “I would be more than happy to lend you a hand, give you some  _pointers_. You know, cousin –” and here Dean sees the angel’s jaw clench, a muscle ticking in his cheek “–maybe you’ll find you like it. I did – a  _lot –_ ”

            Faster than the human eye can follow, Angel Cas hands shoots skyward, striking like a cobra to cuff itself to Future Cas’s throat, fitting itself under the cradle of his unshaved jaw. Future Cas has only a moment’s time to spare a choked off noise of surprise before his feet are lifted up of the floor to dangle half a foot in the air, Angel Cas heaving him up with little effort. A flash of silver, and then Castiel’s angel blade is being pointed only a measly few inches from Future Cas’s slowly-turning red face.

           Someone in the room shrieks shrilly – might be Charlie, more likely Misha, Dean doesn’t look to see who, has already bolted forward, shouting Castiel’s name. “ _Put him down_!”   

           Tugging as hard as he can at the angel’s shoulder only earns him a bared-teeth snarl, Dean unable to budge him an inch.

           “I will not be disrespected by some disgraced abomination,” Angel Cas growls out, cold as a frozen winter lake.  

           “Well choking him sure as hell isn’t going to help!” Dean snaps back, unable to keep his temper in check when it seems everyone in this entire damn bunker is incapable of acting like the billions-years old celestial (or former) beings they are. He huffs. “Come on, man, you’re better than this.” 

            It’s only now that Dean notices Future Cas’s hands aren’t even  _trying_ to free themselves from the angel’s grasp. Despite the small, spasmic gasps Cas can’t suppress, his hands just hang limply at his sides as their owner stares at his attacker with intensely focused eyes.  _He’s not drunk,_ Dean realizes, _he was . . . faking?_  He begs in a choked gasp, “ _Please.”_

            With a small noise of contempt, Angel Cas releases his bruising grip on Future Cas’s throat, the scruffy stoner dropping like a sack of bricks to land at a heap by the angel’s shiny shoes. Angel Cas watches dispassionately, wiping his hand on his trenchcoat, as the gaunt-faced man climbs shakily to his hands and knees, hacking up a lung. The angel stares down at him, stony-faced, but there’s a moment, so quick that Dean thinks he might be the only one who catches it, a crumpled look breaks across that pale face, incongruous fear and resignation battling against each other. But then the angel straightens up, hands curling into fists.

             Dean makes to step forward, hand outstretched. “No, Cas, wait -!”

             But the angel’s already vanished in a fury of invisible feathers, the resulting gale buffeting loose papers every which way (much to Sam’s annoyance).

             Dean’s left belatedly swiping his hand through empty air. “Right . . . Good talk,” he rattles out in a heavy  _sigh_.

             Back at the table, he hears Charlie whisper in a tone mixed with awe and fear, “ _Dude’s like the Terminator_.”

              A raspy cough pulls Dean’s attention back to where Future Cas remains sprawled across the floor, and for a moment Dean’s so furious he could spit fire. He advances ready to ream the fucking idiot for provoking the angel, literally poking the bear with a stick. But then Future Cas, wincing as he rubs at his throat, throws out almost-casually, “You shouldn’t have stopped him.”

            “Come again? I –  _I shouldn’t have stopped him?_ How freakin’ stoned are you, man? He could have  _killed_  you _!”_  Dean barks out, temper periously close to busting through its cap and uncontrollably spewing its white-hot fury everywhere.

            And Future Cas just  _looks_  at him, cocking an insolent eyebrow like Dean has just made his point for him.

            Then next second stretches into infinity, like the moment spent waiting for a single drop of water to fall from its ledge, then . . .  _Oh._ And as it clicks the pulsating fury burns itself out like flash-fire, bereft of its easily distinguished target needed to sustain itself. It cuts him to his core. Breathing hard like he’s just run a mile in the space of three minutes, Dean’s left feeling off-footed and hollow. Helpless. He watches uselessly as Misha trots over to Future Cas, offering his hand without a single flip comment. Future Cas accepts after a moment’s hesitation, allowing himself to be pulled gingerly to his feet and even permitting the arm that slung over his shoulder as they walk away.  

            Dean’s uncomfortably aware that most of the eyes in the room are being directed back to him, tensely awaiting his reaction, more than one seemingly prepared to batter down the hatches to weather the storm of his wrath.

            “Right . . .” he starts slowly, thoughts muddled and directionless. “Right, I . . . I should go talk to him.” He’s a chicken-shit coward for bailing like this, but all he can hear running through his head on repeats is five words:  _You shouldn’t have stopped him._

And he can’t handle all this right now. This is all way out of his depth (Sam would probably say emotional maturity.)

            Dean breaks people, he doesn’t fix them.

            Cas, however, has a conflicting opinion. “Leave him be, Dean. We have enough help here as it is. Until he can learn how to be a, as you say, team, player, I suggest a time-out is in order.”

            Dean can read between the lines, though, the lines being the tense set of Castiel’s shoulders and the thin line of his lips. Translation:  _I don’t want him here, he kicked down my sandcastle and is trying to steal away my toys._   

             There's a moment where Dean has the wild idea that he's Cas's favorite ball in this metaphor, before he dismisses the idea as outrageous. Cas just doesn't like having the angel bossing him around, acting like a stuck-up goodie-two-shoes. He's not . . . He's not _jealous . . ._  Right?

            He should listen to Cas, just say to hell with his uptight angel-self and settle down for the dinner who missed hours ago, a course of action his rumbling stomach heartily approves. But he can’t quite let go of the image of Angel Castiel’s stoic expression crumbling into some lost, stricken face moments before he flew away.

            “Just . . . just give me a minute to talk to him, I’ll get him back here, we’ll smooth this whole thing over. We’ll all sit down to have a beer and laugh about this. Hell, I'll even break out the twister board again. I’ll just need to –”

            But Castiel’s sour-faced frown and arched eyebrow say he’s at the end of his rope. “Fine. Do as you will, Dean, as you always do. But take heed that this time, you’re on your own.” He hesitates, and then softly says, "I'm sorry." And with that Cas walks off, returning his seat at the table with stiff shoulders. Dean opens his mouth to call Cas back, yell at him, berate him for getting it wrong, say he's the one who should be sorry – but all that comes out is a garbled mess of cut-off sounds.

            Dean’s left confused, worried, (a little aroused from watching Cas's ass in those jeans) and still plenty angry.  _What the hell did I do?_

            Cursing up a storm under his breath, Dean whirls around to jog back the way he came, stopping at the exit only to call over his shoulder, “Hold down the fort while I’m gone, will ya, Sammy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Squints* I might come back and edit the Cas vs angel Cas scene, that didn't come out quite how I wanted .... aw well. Maybe over christmas.
> 
> Let me just reassure everyone that I don't actually like having Dean and Castiel fight (although jealous cas is one of my guilty pleasures). Don't worry, everything works out in the end, as every good fluffy destiel fic should. 
> 
> So once again, I’ve had to cut the original chapter in half, since it would have taken me another week or two to finish. Actually, it works out better this way, cause the scene (which is already half-written) is all Dean and Angel Cas stuff anyway, so that’ll merge nicely into the sex. (Yes, next chapter is hot man on hot angel loving. Prepare yourself for a copious amount of angel sex tropes :p)
> 
> Special thanks to Misha and Vicki for the eggs idea. I imagine Dean would have been singing a different tune if he’d actually gotten to watch Misha swallow a raw egg whole in a surprisingly erotic way.
> 
> No idea when the next update will happens, but going by the pattern of the last few months, safe bet is a month from now (fuck you work and depression!) . I just hope the length of these chapters makes up for the waiting period :(
> 
> Stop by and say hi at my tumblr: I-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs


	8. Angel Castiel part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No matter which way the Apocalypse falls off the knife point, my destiny is still the same. Disgraced, disfigured, fallen in 2014, a measly span of six years. A blink of an eye compared to my immeasurable lifespan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PART 2 WILL BE POSTED Wednesday haha!!!! THAT'S THE SEXY TIMES CHAPTER (HOPE NO ONE MINDS, BUT IT WAS PUSHING OVER 15K COMBINED!)
> 
> Anyhoo, I'm starting to wonder if posting shorter chapters isn't the way to go, because this month+ waiting is ridiculous......

              Tracking down the wayward angel proves easier said than done. After doing a sweep of all the bunker’s bedrooms, storage rooms, garage, shooting range, and laundry room, Dean comes up empty-handed. Zip, zilch, nada. He tries not to let the mounting frustration get to him – it’s not like Dean was honestly expecting to find a trail of feathers to follow or something – but there’s only so many places a six-foot angel can hide, and the trenchcoat ain’t exactly camouflage. Dean’s just about convinced Castiel’s switched on his invisibility booster and that this is nothing more than an exercise in futility, when _finally,_ nearly half an hour later, he locates Angel Cas, tucked away in the bunker’s kitchen. Rather ironic for a celestial being that doesn’t need to eat, (although human Cas, who doesn’t know any better, once declared Hot Pockets to be right up there with the wheel in terms of greatest human achievements). Clever bastard probably knew that would be the reason why Dean would search there last.

              Dean pauses beneath the door frame, snagged by hesitance. From his vantage point he studies Castiel in silence, allowing his gaze to rake over the angel, whose broad back is facing the hunter, shoulders hunched with his head bowed, his large hands braced against the table as though to support the weight resting on his shoulders. The light bulb above his head flickers occasionally, throwing harsh light on his perpetual bedhead. It’s one of those moments where Dean thinks that if he squints hard enough and maybe shifts his head to the side a little – maybe stand on his head -  he imagines he would be able to see the faint impression of Cas’s wings, drawn tight to his body like a distressed sparrow.

             Castiel gives no sign that he is aware of Dean’s presence, but Dean would have to be some kind of mouth-breathing moron not to assume that Cas knew the exact moment when Dean started to chase after him. _So you wanna play hardball, huh?_ Dean thinks to himself wryly, already gearing himself up for another uphill battle. Seems like he’s going to have to take the reins on this one.

            “Looking to drown your troubles in Chunky Monkey, Cas?” he calls out. “Personally, I’m more of a Phish Food kinda guy myself.”

            The angel’s shoulders twitch minutely, turning the statue carved from stone into a living creature. Castiel doesn’t sigh so much as expel a great breath of air from his vessel’s lungs, his shoulders seeming to slump in closer to his chest. In a bitterly weary voice, Castiel replies automatically, “I fail to see how an obese primate or nutrients for fish will alleviate my –” Abruptly he cuts off, his sudden silence descending into a lengthy pause. The light above the angel’s head abruptly ceases its flickering to glow a steady yellow luminosity. Frowning, Castiel glances over his shoulder to glare at Dean. “That was one of those human terms that was not meant to be taken literally, wasn’t it?”

             “Hey, look at that – you’re learning.” Ambling cautiously towards Castiel in the same way one approaches a wounded feral animal, Dean smiles in a gesture that is meant to emulate encouragement, but the angel certainly doesn’t take it that way.

            “If you insist on poking fun at me for my ineptitude of comprehending human colloquialisms, finish quickly so you may go and leave me be,” the angel replies frostily, turning back to stare at the table, although for the life of him Dean can’t imagine what he finds so interesting in the grainy wood whorls.

            “Ooh, harsh, Cas. You wound me," he shoots back dryly. "But if you think I’m gonna leave you here to mope around some more, you crabby bastard, you’re in for a world of disappointment. It’s like you don’t know me at all – which, true, I suppose you don’t. Not yet anyways,” Dean yammers on, unrepentant, hoping to provoke Castiel into engaging him. Instead, Castiel just scowls balefully at the table, still not looking back at Dean. "Hey, hey." Dean swats at Cas’s shoulder with the back of his hand; it’s like smacking reinforced concrete. “Don’t give me that. Dude, you sulked all of yesterday, now you’re creeping out in here – you’re turning into one of those antisocial emos on me! It’s, it’s – You know what it is?”

             “No, I don’t,” Castiel answers with a petulant pout, tone long-suffering. “But I’m sure you’re about to explain to me in great detail.”

              For the sake of his still smarting hand, Dean pointedly ignores the mean-spirited jibe.

              “It’s a slippery slope that leads to skinny jeans and guyliner, that’s what it is,” Dean laments with a tragic air, fighting the grin his lips want to curl into. All he gets for his trouble is another withering glare that promises a smiting, Old Testament style – wilted crops and storms of frogs included. “Oh, come on, Fall Out Boy, don’t be that way.” He’s close enough he can lightly hip-check Cas, says in a quieter voice, “Why don’t you tell me what’s got your feathers in a knot, huh? . . . Why’d you freak out back there, man? You know Cas wasn’t going to um, hurt me, or anything like that, right? We’re cool now.”

            Even he as cajoles Cas into opening up, Dean is vividly reminded of his night spent with Jimmy, knees touching as they passed a bottle between each other as the other man confessed his troubles to Dean under the guise of loneliness. Looks like therapy is the name of the game this week in Winchester Land.

            Dean grimaces. If he goes bald and grows a stupid bushy mustache after this, he’s going to be _pissed._

            “He’s human, and therefore prone to the same tendencies of senseless violence as the rest of your kind. I only acted out of caution. 'Better safe than sorry,' I believe the phrase is,” Castiel counters smoothly, although the slip-in of _human_ still makes the comment sound like subtle jab at the real Castiel. At Dean’s pointed eyebrow-raise, he adds mulishly, “Although yes, I suppose there’s a chance I _may_ have overreacted in this one particular case,” and Dean heartily rolls his eyes at the sheer obstinacy. 

            “But there’s more. . .” Dean pushes ruthlessly when the angel doesn’t continue. None of it explains why Castiel when off the handle like that on Future Cas, why he's been belligerent this entire time when Dean remembers the angel as a bites-when-poked kind of guy. "Spill, Cas, it's time to talk. Tell me what bee flew into your bonnet." 

            Long moments pass wherein Dean contemplates another plan of needling the angel before finally, _finally_ Castiel, with his eyes still glued to the table, intones solemnly, “So this is it, then?”

            Dean waits impatiently for him to continue, but when Cas refuses to elaborate any further, he huffs out a fall-body sigh in mild exasperation, asks in clipped words, “What is what?”

            “My fate,” the angel clarifies in doleful, morose tones, finally looking up at Dean, and God, but Dean’s only really noticing now just how haggard Castiel looks. Skin under his eyes sallow, scruff dark and hair wilder than ever, strands going every which way – the guy still looks like he’s about to walk onto a photo shoot for _GQ_ with a mild cold, but for an angel he looks like dog crap warmed over. Instantly Dean’s reminded of the first time Cas spent a night hungover after guzzling the entire inventory of a liquor store. If Dean had to hazard a guess, he’d say Angel Cas isn’t keeping a handle on his vessel’s appearance like he usually does, just like last time, preoccupied with more taxing matters. Like an existential crisis, apparently. “Where I eventually end up after eons upon eons of _faithful_ , _unquestioning_ service to Heaven and my Father’s will,” he rumbles out, anger momentarily flaring to blot out the despair before it recedes in the tide of hopelessness. “No matter which way the Apocalypse falls off the knife point, my destiny is still the same. Disgraced, disfigured, fallen in 2014, a measly span of six years. A blink of an eye compared to my immeasurable lifespan.”

            He says it in the same hollow, desolate tone as one who’s just received their imminent death sentence.

            Running a hand through his hair provides a  distraction, a ploy to buy him some time to think, and Dean looks away as he ducks his head because, Jesus, how does one even _respond_ to something like that? How does he spin it?  _Nah, it’s not all that bad, you’ll only die four times; you’ll call each resurrection a punishment._ He could also go with: _You know what’s all the rage these days? Fratricide. Uriel, Balthazar, Rachael, Samandriel, you killed them all and thousands more._ Or perhaps: _It’s all how you look at it. Sure you’ll unknowingly aid the megalomaniac responsible for kicking out your entire dickbag family from their home, but you had only good intentions. Hey, at least you get to hang out with Sam and me all the time now. Oh, I almost forgot, I’ll fuckin’ kick your ass to the curb ‘cause I’m the shit-for-brains, waste of goddamn space who listened to the wolf in sheep’s clothing._

            How can Dean possibly shield Castiel from what’s to come when all his future mistakes have become personified, milling about in the bunker as they speak?

            He impotently signs out his frustration, when all he really wants to do is beat the shit out of something until his knuckles start to bleed (a something that is preferably Abaddon, Gadreel, or Metatron). _It wasn’t supposed to be this way_ , Dean thinks in a moment of unexpected rage.

           They’ve all changed, he knows. So very, very much. Both Dean and Sam have spent more time in Hell than they have on Earth, Dean with an extra year of Purgatory under his belt – no one escapes that kind of perpetual torture mentally unscathed.. The boys they were in their twenties (although sometimes Dean is unsure if even then he was a boy, thinks he maybe stopped being a boy at age four) would have been horrified to see the damaged men they’ve become. It’s a conviction that burns like acid in Dean’s heart, especially when Dean remembers the bright-eyed college student Sam used to be, perfect life and the perfect girlfriend, as far away from Dean and John and the hunting lifestyle he abhorred.

            But Cas – he’s the one who completely switched  _species_. All because he was dumb enough to throw his hat in for Dean and the rest of humanity. Maybe Dean doomed him from the moment he reached out to cradle Castiel’s shoulder in his hand and said, _Don’t ever change._ _What a stupid thing to say_ , he thinks bitterly. He sure as hell kicked that self-fulfilling prophecy into gear.            

           Nothing and no one can steer Castiel away from the uneven and treacherous road he’s about to travel down (or perhaps fall down is a more accurate phrasing). But maybe Dean can at least prepare him.

            He clears his throat, letting the words come to him. “Here, how about this for a sick and twisted bedtime story, huh?” Castiel doesn’t respond, but of course Dean didn’t expect him to. “So, I don’t know if you’ve figure it all out for yourself yet, but the reason your other future self and I are acquaintances-of-sorts was because your douche boss Zach punted me from 2009 to 2014. That sadistic fuck wanted to, well, let’s just say _teach me a lesson._ ” Dean sniffs contemptuously, scrubs a hand at the scruff sprouting from his jaw. “And it wasn’t this 2014, no, sir. That parallel universe was worse, way fuckin' worse. I’m talking _The Omega Man_ meets _Mad Max_ all rolled into a shit ball of blood-drenched cities and lost hope.” He sucks in air through his teeth, momentarily lost in memories long buried as he says despondently, "Hell on fuckin' Earth."

            “Zachariah was . . . showing you what would happen if you didn’t accept your role in adverting – in precipitating the apocalypse,” Castiel responds slowly, almost tapering off into a question, and Dean can tell he’s accessing the memories he absorbed from Dean yesterday, using them to keep up with the conversation, still coming to terms with the angels’ true motivations in rescuing Dean from Hell. “If you didn’t . . .  if you didn't agree to become the Michael sword.” Castiel bows his head in what might very well be grief, his creased forehead nearly touching the table. “Dean, I’m so sorry. You must believe me when I tell you I had no idea that’s what being the Righteous Man entailed. I wasn’t privy to that sort of revelation, I was merely a grunt in Heaven’s army –” It’s the closest the angel has ever come to babbling.

            “Hey, hey, Cas. I know that already, man.” He briefly touches a hand to Cas’s shoulder, gripping once before releasing the stiff muscle. Neither the flinch nor the baffled stare he expects ever come. “That’s not what I was getting at anyway. What Zachariah showed me wasn’t just the future, is was _our_ future.” He throws his head back, eyes slipping shut in the sudden exhaustion that crashes over him. “God, it was awful, Cas. Three-quarters of the planet was dead or turned by the Croats. And Sam . . . Lucifer had torched the planet all while wearing Sammy like his fuckin’ prom suit. And I know future-you seems bad now, but he was worse back in that other 2014.”

            Movement at his side has Dean opening his eyes to see Castiel finally pushing away from the table, turning around and settling himself back next to Dean, shoulder to shoulder, his arms folded across his chest. “Frankly, I find him to be a revolting and pitiful creature,” the angel says bluntly, staring off into the middle distance, eyes half-lidded.

             Dean nods, although in truth all he feels when _he_ looks at Future Cas is stomach-churning guilt and a profound sadness that aches in his very bones. “Balls deep in ass and titties while he popped every pill he could get his mitts on," he answers Castiel dully. "The kicker is that he shouldn’t have even _been_ there. He should have jumped ship with the rest of the angels. Better his asswipe family than drowning like a rat on that sinking ship. But nope, he just had to go and hitch his ride to my burning wagon and other-me wasn’t there to catch him when him fell.” He can feel his voice drying up, the self-hatred burning in the back of his throat forcing him to pause and swallow it back while it he rapidly blinks to abate the stinging in his eyes. “You would have hated me if you could have seen me, Cas,” he murmurs in a voice barely above a scratchy whisper. “The apocalypse had turned me into some sort of fuckin’ sociopath, a stone-cold bastard that didn’t bat an eyelash as he tossed his friends to the Croats just to get the job done.”

            “As much as I sympathize for you, Dean,” the angel cuts in wearily, “strangely enough this isn’t making me feel any better.”

            “That’s because I’m not finished yet, you impatient dick,” Dean sighs, more from fond exasperation than actual anger. “My point is this.” He makes a vague twirling motion with his finger. “Do you see demon zombies running around here? Is that crazy moose-shootin' psycho Sarah Palin president? No.That’s because we stopped it. You, me, Sam – we gave destiny the finger, tossed Lucifer and Michael into the Cage, and that future didn’t happen never happened to us. Neither of us will ever become that Dean and Castiel.”

            “But I’m still fallen in this timeline,” Castiel protests. “Nothing has changed for me. My fate is unaltered.”

            "Everything has changed," Dean argues back fiercely, because after all they've fought for and all the people they've saved and lost, he _needs_ to be able to hold onto that one thing. That it all mattered, they _mattered_  . "I know you don't think much of your options, but I'd choose you working part-time minimum wage jobs and driving a fugly Lincoln Continental over you dead from Croats any day of the fuckin' week." _Cured or not, I choose you._ He realizes Castiel is staring at him now, eyes wide and unblinking, not saying anything. Dean slides his gaze away and gruffly clears his throat, a little embarrassed at how that all got away from him. "You know. Just so we're clear."

            But the angel has yet to be mollified. “Why would my Father send me down that path when I am so clearly doomed to fail at every turn?” Angel Castiel grounds out flatly, the frustration clearly building. "It's hard to see humanity as anything other than a demotion."

            "Maybe because He knew you were the only angel who would come out okay in the end!" Dean nearly shouts, letting his frustration at Castiel's self-pity get away from him. He remembers Castiel like these in the earlier days of the Apocalypse, during that brief period where his lack of connection to Heaven had drained him to human (or something in-between, at least). Remembers how how he'd constantly bitched to him or Sam or Bobby about how his face was too hot and feet too cold and all the food tasted funny and there was a crick in his neck. This round, however, Cas no longer treats humanity like it's something to suffer through until he makes it to the other side, more like something he strives to adapt to, make the best of. Sometimes in his more pessimistic moments Dean thinks it's because he's treating it like a prison sentence, carrying out his penance in silence because he thinks he deserves the punishment for his crimes. But then there are days where Castiel learns the small miracles of hot showers, fresh coffee in the morning, a soft couch after a long hunt, and Dean's lucky enough to be there to glimpse the surprised wonder on his face. If he's honest with himself, Dean has come to live for those moments.

             When all this is said and done, Dean promises to himself that he's gonna kill Abbadon and Gadreel and Metatron as quickly as he can so he can come home and never have to miss another moment with Cas.

             "Look, Cas, I get it, man. It ain't easy, being held accountable for stuff you haven't even done yet; you don't deserve to have it shove it in your face like this. I can't protect you from what's to come, you're just gonna have to face it when it matters. But listen to me." He puts his hand on the angel's other shoulder this time, spinning him gently him to face him. The angel's face is drawn, eyes turned down at the corners, gazing up at Dean like he's Castiel's only lifeline. Here, in 2014, he is. "You won't be alone, I promise. You'll have me and Sam. Even when you go bananas, I'll still fight for you, 'cause you're family, no matter what. Remember that, if nothing else." When Castiel continues to look skeptical, Dean adds, "You have a boatload of faith in me, you really think I wouldn't have a little bit in you?"  

             And for the first time Castiel deflates a little, eyes softening. Their gazes hold for a few moments longer than socially acceptable, but hey, that's just their m.o. 

             “Dean, I . . .” He stops, tries again, exhaustion dragging his words over gravel. “I know my behavior over the past two days hasn't been entirely gracious, and I want to formally apologize. I;M NO ungrateful for the advice and succor you provided, Dean. Far from it.”

            “Hey, don’t sweat it, man. I get it. I can empathize. Besides, I know your social skills suck.”

             Castiel signs sharply through his nose, scratching a hand against the side of his unshaven jaw. “It’s just all so very . . . _different_.” The angel spits it out like it’s a dirty word, wrinkling his nose. “Only two days previously, I was a warrior of God, the leader of an entire garrison of angels, faithful, _loyal_ , blessed to have been the one to have raised the Righteous Man from Hell.” Castiel grins wryly, shooting a wry glance at Dean. “Although I was quickly learning that particular title came with unexpected trials, especially in regards to testing the boundaries of my patience.”

             Dean returns the smile, puts his hands up in mock defense. “Hey, you’ve come to the wrong place if you’re looking for an apology. You were a dick. Er, _are_ a – I mean . . . oh, you know what I’m getting at. What I'm trying to say is you weren’t the easiest person to get along with sometimes. Still aren’t.”

             Cas concedes the point with a nod of his head before continuing. “Despite my . . . misgivings – which I’ll have you know I’ve never confided to any of my own brothers and sisters, so imagine my surprise when you, Dean Winchester, brazenly revealed you knew my closest guarded secret,” he adds grumpily, one glossy black eyebrow quirked, to which Dean allows himself a small chuckle. “Despite my doubts, I was . . . if not happy, at least content with my lot in life.” A shadow falls over Cas’s face as he ducks his head, shoulders slumping forward. “Now I’m faced with the knowledge that the next five years of my like will see my fallen from grace – willingly – and the utter _fool_ who causes the entirety of Heaven to Fall. Not to mention I’m responsible for the genocide of a countless number of my brothers and sisters. It’s . . . How do I even begin coming to terms with any of that?”

            The silence following is long and torturous, but eventually Dean gathers up his strength to whisper, “Shit, Cas, you think you're the only one who's made mistakes? At this point, Sam and I are practically the posters boys for royally fucking up. But we don't lie down in the mud and cry over it, we get back up and we go back to doing our job because no one else will. You understand, Cas? You're going to do what we do. Live one day at a time. Fake it until you make it, if that's what it takes." Castiel's silence is pregnant with skepticism, so Dean adds, "Besides, Cas, you’re done good too. You try. That counts for something in the end.”

            “Being an angel is all I know how to do, Dean,” Castiel protests softly. 

            “Yeah, well, you said it yourself, being an angel has never really worked out all that well for you,” Dean retorts, but not unkindly. It’s the honest-to-God truth, though, that while Cas kind of epicly fails at being a follow-orders-to-the-letter solider of Heaven, he makes a more honest, compassionate, and kinder human than most people born one, that’s for damn sure. It’s this that has Dean side-eyeing Castiel, asking in a low murmur, “If you promised not to tell another living soul, could you keep a secret?” He leans in close to Castiel, close enough to catch a whiff of that coppery scent that his brain has always associated with angels, the scent he’s almost forgotten about since the real Castiel became human. “Even though you’ve had a rough start, I’m . . .” Dean pauses, bites his lip, but then decides to just go for it, it’s not like he’ll ultimately remember this one sealed-away confession anyway. “I’m _really_ hoping this being human works out for you.”

             A flicker of  _something_ flashes in Castiel's eyes before the angel looks away, ducking his head to stare at his shoes. It sends a spike of anxiety through Dean, makes him wonder if he's finally crossed the line and acted more familiar with the angel than he could handle.

            "Hey, you okay, Cas?" Dean worries at his lip, clenches his fist so he doesn't reach out to Cas and make things worst. "If I'm making you uncomfortable, I can leave . . ."

            But the angel only shakes his head. “Stay. You must forgive me, Dean. I know I've already made mention of this,” Cas says, making an admirable effort to pull himself back together, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin,  “I’m not used to this . . . Camaraderie, I guess is the closest word. I’m used to you hating me.”

            “I never hated you, Cas.” _Not even when you betrayed us to Crowley, or broke Sam's wall. Not even when came back all screwed up in the head and all I wanted to do was scream at you for leaving me behind._ “I thought you were a self-righteous asshole sometimes, still do sometimes, as a matter of fact. Sometimes it was easier acting like I did. But you'll always be my friend. You've earned that a thousand times over.”

             Castiel's cant his head just so, gaze soft, and for the first time Dean has no problem seeing that man he will become. "And you are mine, Dean. Now and then."

            "Damn straight." Pleasure bubbles like fizz in Dean's chest, escaping in the form of a hearty chuckle. 

             Still chuckling, Dean lets his gaze drift to rake from Cas’s face down to his torso.  “You know . . . It seems like it’s been ages since I’ve seen this ratty old thing. I’m still not used to seeing you in jeans and old t-shirts.” His fingers tentatively brush against the stiff material of Cas’s trenchcoat – _the_ trenchcoat – eyes darting up to check the angel’s reaction and make sure he isn’t oversteping any personal space boundaries in his sudden boldness. Brow furrowed, Castiel only watches with a slightly confused, if inquisitive, mien, waiting to see what Dean does next. “God, you wore this thing crime against fashion for years, even after you . . .” The words _died, drowned, exploded into black goo in a lake_ get lodged in his throat, so he swallows it down and tries to move on like nothing happened, glad Castiel for once doesn’t question him. “Every second for five years . . . then you’re human for less than a day and you leave it behind in a washing machine in Colorado,” he scoffs incredulously, with more bitterness than he meant.

            “You have become . . . taken with my vessel’s clothing?” Castiel asks, utterly perplexed by the admittedly abrupt change of topic. Dean’s just lucky the angel didn’t ask if he had a fetish.

            (. . . He might.)

            “Yeah, I . . . I guess did. Not that you don’t look pretty sharp in a pair of blue Levi’s and a Henley, but . . . I’ve missed this,” Dean murmurs with more honesty than he’s probably mustered in the last couple of months, ‘cause it won’t matter, won’t come back to bite him on the ass. This Castiel will leave him soon too, one way or another.

             Castiel favors Dean by returning his gesture of honesty pound for pound, eyes soft and voice sincere enough to make Dean’s insides do a funny dance. “Then I glad I’m able to bring you this measure of comfort, no matter how small.”

            Fingers fastening onto the edge of Cas’s coat, Dean grins at Castiel, feels the corners of his mouth stretching until it hurts. He watches in incredulous amazement as Castiel, a little hesitantly, smiles right back, the motion a little awkward, a lot unpracticed, nothing like Jimmy or Misha’s gummy grin, but it’s still filled with so much honest warmth and affection that it has Dean lighting up like a freakin’ Christmas tree from the inside, heart skipping faster in his chest than it was a moment ago. Dean’s resulting chuckle on makes Castiel grin a little bit wider. There’s hardly half a foot between them as they gaze at each other, and it’s so reminiscent of old times that it makes Dean’s stomach clench with an emotion he can’t (won’t) put a name to.

            So when Dean leans forward with his head tilted just right to brush his nose against the angel’s cheek, locking his lips with Castiel’s, is seems like the most logical course of action in the world. Casual and intimate. Like they’ve been doing this since the beginning.

            . . . Up until several seconds of unresponsive stillness pass after Cas’s initial startled gasp and Dean realizes with sickening clarity he’s just crossed a line he oh-so-casually fucking forgot even existed.

            Essentially, he’s just gone and pulled a Jimmy.

            Dean pulls back and immediately blurts, “Oh, _shit,_ fuck – I, I’m sorry, Cas, shit, shit, ‘m sorry,” as he stumbles backwards, catching only a fleeting glimpse of Castiel and his stunned expression before dropping his gaze to his shoes, feeling like he could happily die right now, sell his soul all over again if it would just take him out of this moment. He expects Castiel to flip out on him, shake him, hit him, _something_ – it was only last night when he sneered at Dean in disgust for even teasingly hitting on him. “It was just a heat of the moment thing, just a dumb human – freakin’ _thing,_ Christ, I can’t believe I did that, I just _forgot_ , it doesn’t mean anyth – _mmph-mnh!_ ”

            Mercifully, Castiel has taken pity on Dean and cut off his inane blathering, deploying a rather ingenious way of going about it – by reaching forward with his large hand to cradle the back of Dean’s skull, fingers carding into his short strands of hair at his name. He growls out roughly, “ _Don’t blaspheme_ ,” right before hauling Dean forward to crash back into Castiel’s parted mouth.

            _Well,_ Dean thinks idly. At least Cas has gotten with the program.

            After the initial shock wears off, Dean decides _what the hell,_ and instead of questioning Cas’s motivations, he just rolls with it. And yeah, at first it starts off as a rather artless mess, Castiel using just a tad too much saliva and tongue (he has a few years to go before his introduction to the pizza man), although Dean finds his unbridled enthusiasm to be one hell of a turn-on. Thankfully, Castiel is surprisingly malleable and open to suggestions, allowing Dean to place his fingers on his stubbled chin and guide him gently into the kiss, following Dean’s lead and mimicking the movements of his more experienced mouth and tongue. In no time at all, Castiel, eyes half-lidded as though he intends not to miss a single detail, is macking on Dean like he has plans to divide and conquer, nothing like he expected from the trillions-year-old virgin (oh, fuck, don’t even think about that, Cas's first kiss, so fucking hot), pausing only for Dean to resurface for the quickest intake of air, the angel patiently – _eagerly_ – awaiting his return so that he may continue devouring Dean’s mouth as though he intends to crawl inside of Dean and take him as a vessel.  

            _Boom!_ _Suck it, Meg_ , Dean thinks fleetingly in smug triumph before turning his complete focus back to finding out how many licks does it take to get to the center of his angel –

             “Dean! You in there?”

            And that's when Dean comes crashing back down to Earth with a jarring bump.

            Their mouths breaking away with an audibly wet pop, Dean and Castiel fly apart like they’ve been run through with electricity, the angel actually jerking back hard enough to bang into the table, sending it skidding back by a foot. The moment broken into fine dust, Dean can only goggle idiotically at Castiel, sucking in one shaky breath of air after the next as his rational mind claws its way back to the surface. Castiel is likewise speechless, shocked into silence by his own wanton response, gaping at Dean in transfixed silence. Only a silver of blue is visible in his eyes; the faintest pink flush tinges the ridges of his high cheekbones, a perfect match to his slightly swollen lips.

             _I did that,_ Dean thinks, and a flush of masculine pride washes over him. Unfortunately, it's swiftly doused out by the proceeding thought,  _What have I done?_

            Sure it’s one thing to fool around with Jimmy and the Leviathan wearing Cas’s body, but this . . . this _is_ Cas, an earlier version, yes, still wrapped in his packaging with all his original parts, but he’s the same intense, too-literal, man-shaped angel who sometimes gazes at Dean like he’s the most complex and frustrating and wonderful thing in the universe.   

            And Dean has just kissed him like he’s wanted to everyday for years. His stomach his still barrelrolling with butterflies, every breath doesn’t feel like enough. His entire world has fractured and rearranged itself into a new configuration in the space of less than a minute, sitting tilted on its axis.

            The only chance he has righting it again is getting his lips back on Castiel.

            “Dean? Is everything okay?” the voice calls out again, closer now; he can hear footsteps.

            His brain finally kicks itself in the ass, and Dean spins himself around just in time to see Charlie poke her head in the kitchen, relief breaking across her face when she spots him.

            “I thought I might find you in here,” Charlie says wryly. “Dude, would it kill you not to bail on us every ten minutes? Or carry at least one of your twenty crap phones with you? What are you even doing in here? I thought you were looking for the angel, not feeding your craving for late-night munchies –”

            “What!? No, no, it’s not like that – w-we were just –”

            Flustered and red-faced from being caught playing a little hanky-panky in the kitchen, Dean sputters out a garbled mess, completely tongue-tied, aware at any moment the truth is going to come blurting out of Cas’s mouth – but when Dean turns to shoot Cas a helpless, don’t-say-anything look, he finds himself ogling empty space with an angel-sized hole left behind. Castiel bailed.

           “Freakin’ king of mixed signals,” Dean mutters under his breath.

            When he turns back to Charlie with an innocent smile plastered on his face, he finds she’s narrowed her gaze on him, and Dean fights the urge to guiltily lick his kiss-bitten lips. “Something smells fishy in here and it ain’t that tuna casserole I saw in the fridge.” Comprehension – or possibly shrewd speculation – sparks in her eyes. “Do I even want to know?”

             Blushing profusely now, Dean inhales and exhales sharply, swallowing down the hard lump of mixed disappointment and guilty relief. “Probably not.”

            Charlie scrunches up her nose in disgust. “Aw, dude, we eat in here! Whatever, if you’re ready to give little Dean a rest tonight, you really should consider coming to chill with us in the library.” She abruptly lets loose a squeal of excitement, dancing on her toes, staring at him with hopeful eyes.  “I just got the Monty Python Blu-ray box set with director commentary!”

            Dean pushes away from the table to join her. “When did research-mode turn into Sleepover Saturday?”

             Charlie makes a face, this one a strange mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. “When Misha got antsy and started singing showtunes at the top of his lungs, right after demanding a hula-hoop and a ukulele. Needless to say, Sam and I thought it was time to call it a night.” She hesitates, then continues, “That one dopp, you know the _28 Days Later_ extra? He’s doing a little better now . . . but I think it would be really sweet if you’d stop by and see for yourself. Just for a few minutes.”

            Discovering a new found interest in a loose thread of his jacket, Dean ducks his head. Guilt, gooey and clinging like tar, slides down his throat to pool in the pit of his belly, solidifying into a hard, clumping mass. It’s not like he had completely forgotten about Future Cas and his newly-discovered suicidal impulses while making out with his angelic counterpart – no, wait, that’s exactly what he did. He deflects, “I thought you didn’t like him.”

            “Oh, believe me, I don’t, he's a complete sleaze and still smells like my frathouse, but . . .” Charlie chews nervously at her lip. “He’s hurting, and I’ve known people to lash out like that when they're in that kind of pain. It’s not easy to watch.” She sighs, shaking her head. “I can believe Cas nearly sunk so low. Good thing you and Sam got over your boy melodrama, huh?”

            Dean thinks of Sam in the library last night, his coldness. “Yeah,” he responds stiltedly. “Good thing . . . But you and Sam are gonna continue chasing down all lines for _another_ solution to the amulet, right?” Dean presses uneasily, even though he already knows what Charlie’s going to say.

            Charlie sighs glumly, glancing at Dean in sympathy. “We’re doing our best, Dean, but it looks like your, um,  _answer_  is the only one. Which, for the record, I think it’s as weird and unnecessarily complicated as you do.” She pauses before shooting a mischievous look at him. “But I must say, Winchester,” Charlie says as they exit the kitchen. “I’m a tad disappointed. I was totally sure you would have had this in the bag by now. You getting rusty in your elderly age, old man?”

            Dean huffs, chuckling in spite of himself. “Hey, hey, don’t worry about my game, kiddo. I know what I’m doing,” he lies. “Sometimes you got to be patient and work the long game, is all.”

            “Whatever, dude. All I need to do is crook my finger and all the ladies come running to me. Maybe I should get Dory to touch the amulet, see what happens. What’ya think?”

            Dean smirks, adding an extra dollop of lasciviousness for good measure. “Only if you invite me to watch –  _Ow!_. . . Okay, I deserved that.”

 

            A quick glimpse at Charlie’s snazzy new iPhone indicates it’s a little after eleven by the time Dean and Charlie make it back to the library. Dean's so damn exhausted he's going to need toothpicks if he wants to keep his eyes open any longer. This day has been too freakin' long.

           In the library, the tables of notes, books, laptops, and Charlie’s high-end tablet have been pushed off to the side to make room for the lumpy plaid couch Dean had snatched up off the curb a week ago (getting it into the back of the Impala had been one helluva experience, and not one he’s keen on repeating in the future, near or far). Sam’s getting the projector set up that’s connected to the laptop, the only thing they have available for such a large group.

           Diligently ignoring the several pairs of curious blue eyes that perk up when he walks in, Dean plunks his ass down on the corner end of the ginormous couch with his cheek propped up by his fist, heaving an aggravated sigh and shoving Misha off when he tries to curl up beside him with his head on Dean’s lap. 

          ("Well, can I at least rest my tootsies in your lap?"

            "No.")

            Sighing to himself, Dean looks over his shoulder, eyes immediately picking out the distinguishable tangled rat’s nest of long dark hair. Future Cas, however, is oblivious to Dean’s scrutiny, passed out again at the table with another three-quarters empty bottle of booze dangling precariously from his loose grasp. As Dean watches in silence, Emmanuel walks by to place a ragged blue throw blanket onto his doppelganger's shoulders, and Dean catches Manny’s eye to nod his thanks.  

            Well. That’s that, then, Dean thinks as he turns back around.  For now, at least.

            Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his Castiel nervously hovering around the eclectic group settling in for the movie. Dean studiously ignores Cas, even as he surreptitiously watches the fallen angel eyeing Dean and the currently unoccupied seat cushion beside him, face regretful and sad-eyed, hesitating for a long moment before ultimately turning away to take the arm chair on the other side, closer to Charlie and far away from Dean.

             Dean grinds his teeth together but doesn’t call him out on it, won’t acknowledge the snub because he refuses to give Cas the satisfaction of knowing he got under Dean’s skin. Besides, _he’s_ the one acting unreasonable, not Dean.

             It’s probably for the best anyway, seeing as he can’t even look Cas in the eye anymore without reliving every time he’s locked lips with his body doubles. In a rather horrible way, it’s a lot like that time back in high school before he dropped out when Dean got drunk and made out with Carly Swanson of the smoking hot Swanson twins when he was actually dating her sister, Harley – only a thousand times worse. Mostly because this time around, Dean actually worries about the consequences.

             Despite what everyone thinks of him, Dean’s no idiot (most of the time). He knows that his window for keeping his  . . . _extracurricular_ activities under wraps is rapidly closing, and that eventually Cas will start getting nosy, demanding to know where all the twins are disappearing off to, why only Sam and Charlie seem to be in the know. He’s already suspicious and Dean’s running out of excuses, has already played his remaining ace - the ‘sent home to family’ card – with Jimmy. What the hell is Dean going to do if Castiel tries to interrogate Leviathan and finds his cell-room empty?

            And when he finds out  . . . Dean thinks it might just kill him when he sees the look of absolute disgust he knows will be stamped across Cas’s face when he discovers the truth.

            In a surprising turn of events, it’s Sam who ends up taking the seat next to him, a half-way decent barrier between Misha and his heavy head.

            As the movie starts to the sound of clopping coconuts and everyone’s attention is suitably diverted, Sam jostles his shoulder pointedly against Dean’s. He leans in close enough to ask in a low murmur well out of earshot, “You get everything, um, sorted out with the angel?”

            Dean almost answers with the truth, but then thinks better of it when he realizes even he still doesn’t know what the hell actually happened back in the kitchen. And for another thing, Dean isn’t quite ready to share yet, not while his lips still tingle from Castiel’s kiss. Instead he huffs out a rather cryptic reply, “You got it all backwards before, Sammy. Reality’s the one confusing _my life_ with a porno. And she’s one sick, nutty bitch.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you guys Tuesday. Nope, I meant wednesday.


	9. Angel Castiel part 2 (Hide My Wings Tonight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah? That so?” Dean’s hand drifts up Cas’s toned chest, detouring to make a pass across his nipple, brushing the fabric back and forth against the nub. The full-bodied shiver it elicits is mouth-watering and makes Dean’s mind drift to other ways he can get Cas to writhe, maybe pump a moan or two out of him. “What if I wanted things hard?”
> 
> Castiel pauses, cants his head to the side in consideration. “Dean, even I know that is a terrible choice of innuendo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UNEDITED  
> As I promised, there are Sexy Times at the end of this chapter, so let’s get the warnings out of the way: blow jobs, anal sex (although why I am warning you about that, isn’t that what you’re all here for??), and shameless use of a copious amount of tropes commonly found in angel Cas fics, including wing!kink, grace!kink etc. Also First Time (technically), virgin!kink, and Bottom!Cas/top!Dean (although still some top!Cas/bottom!Dean undertones because apparently I'm incapable of not slipping it in . . . so maybe this is topping from the bottom??). Warning for Dean being a general idiot about gay sex, a touch of internalized homophobia.

            Sunlight, weak and pale blue-gray from the barely-breaking sunrise, filters in through the Plexiglas windows, casting long shadows across the linoleum floors, so spick and span from a recent mopping that they sparkle. Hands stuffed in his pockets, Dean strolls by neatly divided rows of packaged and processed foods, his stomach for once silent. His boots squeak with every step, the only sound in the otherwise empty Gas-N-Sip store.

            Dean quits his perusal of the fatty snacks when he reaches the checkout counter, noticeably bereft of its attendant. Cocking an imperious brow, he turns around to scan the store behind him, finds no one, not even a pimply-faced teenager mopping up spilled pop drinks.

            Leaning against several stacked cases of El Sol beer, Dean scowls, impatient and amped up. He has to tamp down the urge to cross his arms and tap his foot.

            Perhaps it's because it’s the asscrack of dawn, but Dean’s thoughts, when they come, are slow and muddled like their trudging through knee-deep mud to get to his brain. So until he gets about one or two or eight more cups of coffee into his system Dean figures he can be excused for taking so long to figure out exactly  _why_  he’s inexplicably annoyed.

            Usually he isn’t left waiting for so long.

             Fortunately for Dean, even though he doesn’t exactly remember  _what_  he’s waiting on, he’s not left hanging for very long, sensing the presence before he catches the delicate tinkling of the small bell.

            The chime and subsequent opening door disrupts the early morning silence – he finds the lack of birdsong unnerving – and Dean turns languidly on his heel, a stupidly happy smile already splitting his face before he’s even halfway around.

            “This . . . doesn’t seem right.” Cas’s brows are scrunched up to give him the appearance of a bewildered pug as he stands at the entrance between the magazine and newspaper racks, staring perplexedly around the convenience store. He eyes the Slushie machine with no small amount of trepidation.

            “Well, I’ll say,” Dean hums lowly in agreement when he catches Cas’s eye, sauntering forward while his scrutinizing gaze rakes down Castiel and his incongruous outfit. “You’re out of uniform, soldier.”

             It’s not what Dean’s used to seeing here in this particular dream – yes, Dean has finally remembered it’s a dream, given that this one has become a popular motion feature in the reels of Dean’s wet dreams archive, one that starts with him and Cas making out in this Idaho gas station convenience store and ends with him getting fucked on the counter while Cas makes him deep-throat a hot dog. (Yeeeeaaaah, this one definitely ranks as one of Dean’s kinkier sex dreams, but it sure does work up an appetite.) Although usually Cas is wearing the fitted jeans, white button-down, and dorky Gas-N-Sip employee blue vest uniform that Dean finds worryingly arousing. But hey, Dean’s not about to complain about  _this_  last-minute wardrobe change – it’s the holy tax accountant getup, perfect in every detail down to the tousled hair and backwards tie, and Dean would like to thank not only his dick but also his subconscious for pulling out all the stops on this one.

             Dean plans on making good use of this little sojourn from consciousness, and with any luck he won’t be able to look any of the Castiels in the eye when he wakes up tomorrow.

             Without a sliver of reluctance, Dean slips behind the dream-image of Castiel to wrap his arms around its waist, tightening in reassurance when Castiel stiffens. Dean grins wolfishly; the illusion even has the slimmer build the angel use to have, like Jimmy. “We’re gonna have to do somethin’ about that,” Dean murmurs huskily, mimicking every cheesy porno he’s ever watched as he skims a hand down the front of the starch-white shirt. “ _Like get you out of them_.”

             Instead of twisting around in Dean’s arms to reel him into a punishing kiss like Dean expects him to do, the Dream-Castiel blinks up at him in befuddlement, though his rigid muscles gradually relax by increments. “Oh. I – yes. Well, then. This certainly makes this particular, erm, endeavor easier to manage. For y-you, I mean.” It’s gratifying to watch the angel stumble over his words, tongue-tied and flushing pink like a spring-fresh virgin. Not exactly how this particular fantasy usually plays out, but Dean finds the break from script refreshing.

             “Yeah? That so?” Dean’s hand drifts up Cas’s toned chest, detouring to make a pass across his nipple, brushing the fabric back and forth against the nub. The full-bodied shiver it elicits is mouth-watering and makes Dean’s mind drift to other ways he can get Cas to writhe, maybe pump a moan or two out of him. “What if I wanted things  _hard_?”

            Castiel pauses, cants his head to the side in consideration. “Dean, even I know that is a  _terrible_  choice of innuendo.”

            In retaliation for that smartass remark, Dean grinds his burgeoning erection against the crease of Castiel’s ass to get his point across.

            The angel sucks in a shocked gasp, spasms once in his arms. “Oh. . . !  _Oh_! Dean, that’s . . . that’s  _interesting,_ ” Dream-Cas exclaims, his gravely voice dipping an octave lower until it rumbles out like a snare drum, vibrating outward until Dean can feel it rumble in his own chest. Soon Cas is greedily pushing back against him, seeking more of Dean’s brazen touch.

            Dean takes the opportunity to nuzzle Cas’s fucking gorgeous neck, nibbling up the column of taut, stubble-rough skin to lick at the bolt of his jaw, humming in pleasure when Castiel extends his neck to the side to allow Dean more access.  To show his undying gratitude, Dean fists a rumbled bunch of the trench coat with one hand, slips the other under Castiel’s arm to begin blindly undoing his tie, nibbling and licking at his bared neck as he ruts against Cas’s backside. “I want to see you out of these clothes, Cas,” he whispers in his ear, urgency leaking into his hoarse voice. He kiss the soft spot behind his ear. “ _Now._ ”

            “Y-yes, yes,” Cas pants, like Dean is a goddamn genius with a PH.D in getting Castiel, BAMF angel of the Lord, all hot and bothered under the collar. “Expediency is for the best course of action in this case.”

              For all Castiel’s big talk, however, he sure doesn’t seem all that keen on being proactive any time soon, content lie back (as it were) and let Dean do all the work. “Lazy asshole,” Dean mutters affectionately as he takes it upon himself to get this show on the road. The process is slow going, Dean continuously getting sidetracked by uncovering new areas of Cas’s skin his mouth has yet to taste, but eventually he manages to loosen up the blue tie until it hangs lopsided around Cas’s collar. Soon Dean begins working one-handed on the buttons of Cas’s dress shirt, popping them open with his thumb one by one to reveal taut, creamy flesh.

             “You . . . you have interesting dreams, Dean,” Cas pants in a breathy sigh, seemingly apropos of nothing. “Do you frequently envision us engaging in carnal acts in public areas designed for human mass consumption?”

            “If by  _frequently_  you mean  _all the damn time,_ then . . . Wait, hold up.” Dean freezes, replaying Cas’s words in his head, something about them not sitting well with him. “. . . Care to repeat that first bit?”

             But Chatty Cathy seems to have abruptly lost all interest in making small talk, instead makes an impatient huffing sound and pulls himself free from Dean, spinning to face him. He only spares a second of wasting his time with the buttons before he scowls in frustration at his clumsy fingers and decides on more effective ways, taking the part in his hands to rip the dress shirt down the middle, stomach muscles rippling and biceps bulging within the confines of the trenchcoat. Several buttons go flying in the frenzy, and Dean would be suitably impressed - and aroused - by the animalistic display if warning bells weren’t going off in his head.

            Before Cas can shrug off the trenchcoat and the tattered remains of his shirt, Dean takes hold of his wrist to stop him. “Hey, Cas, cool it with the Hulk impression for a minute. What did you mean by dreams?”

            For a man starting to look like a disaster survivor with his forming sex-hair and ruined clothing, Castiel sure can level a condescending eyebrow-raise when the situation calls for it. “This is a dream, Dean.  _Your_ dream.” He speaks slowly, with long, enunciated syllables, like Dean is the slow kid in the back of the class who eats paste.  

            Dean eloquently rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no fuckin' duh, Freud. I got that much. But usually we don’t chitchat about it  _while_ it’s taking places. I mean – I’m basically arguing with myself here. You’re not real, you’re part of my friggin’ imagination, for Christ sakes! . . . Ugh” Dean groans, his forehead falling to land on Cas’s shoulder. “Stupid subconscious. Is a guilt-free sex dream too much to ask for these days?”

            A hand clamps itself firmly onto Dean’s shoulder, and then Castiel is pushing Dean back just enough so they can meet each other’s eyes. “Dean, I don’t think you understand. This is a dream, yes, but I am not a product of it.”

            Dean’s brows pull down in confusion. “What? But you’re standing right there . . .”

            Maybe it’s because it’s been years since Castiel has pulled this trick out of his overlarge sleeve that it takes Dean so long to get it, but then it clicks, and Dean’s eyes widen in equals parts nauseating horror and crippling mortification. “Oh no. You don’t mean to tell me you’re actually –”

            “I’m dream-walking, Dean,” Angel Castiel replies, and Dean feels his stomach try to eat itself. “The wards in your bunker left me with just enough power for this. Our . . . encounter in the kitchen has, you might say, opened my eyes to a new perspective on this unusual situation we have on our hands.” And it is here that Castiel’s gaze turns heated,  _scorching,_ trailing down Dean’s face to focus on his lips. It doesn’t help the situation that by now his shirt is fully parted to reveal a broad strip of his toned chest now, identical to Jimmy’s in muscle tone and pallor. “It’s made me rethink my original stance on the matter, and after much careful deliberation, I decided that I would assist you in returning myself and my other doppelgangers back to their stations.”

            “Jesus, Cas,” Dean breathes out slowly, still grappling with the shock, but he can feel the real freakout brimming just around the corner. “You couldn’t text me a time and meet me in my room like a regular booty call?”

            He can tell by the indignant, downturned quirk of his mouth that the angel isn’t familiar with the term, but can gather what Dean means from the context. “I decided that entering your dream would grant us an opportunity to expedite the reversal process without having to go through the trouble of inventing an excuse for taking you out from under the nose of your overbearing hellspawn brother and my meddlesome future self.”

            “So . . . so so so,” Dean sputters out, breathing heavily through his nose as his heart rate picks up. He’s just groped Castiel . . . Oh, God, does he ever need a stiff drink. “So, uhm, you decided you would, what – seduce me into popping your cherry for you?”

             “ _Seduce_ you?” Castiel trails off, confusion swiftly giving way to horror. “Dean, no! I thought you knew it was me! I thought I correctly interpreted the signs, your body language - You clearly acted as though you had been waiting – I didn’t realize that this was a . . .” A pinkish flush spreads across his cheekbones, and for the first time mixed uncertainty and discomfort arrive to rest awkwardly on the usually stoic angel’s face. “. . . regular occurrence.”

            “It’s not!” Dean yelps, quick to deny, but the look he gets from Castiel in return suggests the angel doesn’t believe him for a damn second. He backtracks, “I mean – he can’t dream-walk anymore, so we can’t . . . we’re not like  _that_.” He’s getting pretty sick and tired of saying that, being constantly reminded of the thing he wants most in the world but can’t have. People constantly bringing it up isn’t going to change that.

            “But you  _do_  dream of us together?” Castiel persists, latching onto the wistfulness leaking from Dean’s voice. Dean can’t quite decipher the angel’s tone, can’t tell if that is hope he hears or if he’s just imagining it.  He steps forward once, bridging the distance to put himself back in Dean’s space. “As Adam laid with Eve?”

             Dean’s face is hot enough to fry an egg at this point, and it’s all he can do to stop himself from walking out the convenience store and hoping he can wake himself up if he slams his head against the concrete enough times. He’d never make it, though; Castiel would just drag him back, kicking and screaming if need be.

            Since it looks like he won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, he might as well come clean. With his eyes stubbornly fixed on a point to the right of Cas’s shoulder, Dean nods reluctantly.

            “Then why did you stop? Not two minutes ago you were willing – more than willing, as I can recall with my  _infallible_  memory,” he reminds Dean haughtily, “to have sexual relations with me when you thought I was merely a figment of your imagination . . . but now that you know I’m real, you seem to have lost all interest. Forgive me if I’m coming off as belligerent, Dean, but I think I’m entitled to an explanation,” Castiel growls out, not sounding contrite at all.

             Good Lord.  _Heaven hath no fury like an angel with a developing case of blue-balls_ , Dean thinks.

             “It's not my vessel that's unappealing, is it?” Castiel takes Dean’s unwilling wrist in his hand, ignoring Dean’s sputtered protest and splaying his hand firmly on his own bare chest. Dean wonders if Castiel purposely placed his hand over his heart, if he knows the symbolism of the gesture. Skin smooth under his palm, Dean can feel the steady rhythm of the angel's heart greeting him, deceptive like Castiel’s appearance, as though he is nothing more than what his human suit suggests. “This body is the same as Jimmy’s and you made love with him,” the angel says, more to himself than Dean, as though he’s still mulling over the likely explanation for Dean’s behavior.

            Flinching at the words  _make love,_ Dean rips his hand from Castiel’s grip, knowing he only succeeds because Castiel lets him. And finally, he lets himself freak the fuck out.

           “That has nothing to do with any of that, you dolt! Me and Jimmy–” It’s here Dean has to conspicuously pause to swallow pass the lump forming in his throat “– we didn’t do it because we  _had_  to. It wasn’t duty, or another order to follow. I didn't do it to reverse the curse. We did it because we’re  _human_!” Breathing harshly, Dean stares incredulously at the angel, his appearance otherwise unrumpled despite his shredded shirt. He makes a scoffing sound. “And, what, after some high school-level tonsil hockey you think you’re ready to graduate to the horizontal tango?”

            Castiel’s brow furrows, and Dean knows he’s hit a mark. Instead of unwillingly conceding Dean the point, the Castiel instead hedges, “I’ve already said that I found kissing you most pleasing –”

            Dean has to fight the urge to grab the infuriating angel by the throat and strangle him. He opts for the less violent option of heaving out a rattling sigh, glaring at the angel all the while. “You’re completely missing the point, Cas! Sex is a helluva a lot more than just macking on each other like a pair of horny teenagers!"

            Castiel scowls, his patience visibly thinning. “I fail to see why any of this is of import.”

            “Because it means something to me, Cas,” Dean retorts quietly, fuming. Because regardless of his long history of casual one-night stands, Dean knows,  _knows,_ sex with Cas could never be just another meaningless fling. It would burn him from the inside just to touch the angel like that. "I know you're just trying to help with the amulet bullshit, Cas, but this isn't the way to go about it."

           “You think I feel  _obligated_?”

            The angel is incredulous, baffled, and – it squeezes at Dean’s heart to see it plain as day in the angel’s expression –  _hurt_.

            But Dean refuses to budge. “You said it! All that assisting me and  _expediting_  crap!” he throws back. “You don’t . . . you don’t actually want to have sex, Cas. Not like a human does,” he explains slowly, knows he sounds pitying. He watches tiredly as a flicker of consternation passes across Castiel’s face. “Angels just aren’t equip to handle those kind of emotions. Trust me, I know," he adds with more than a touch of world-weary bitterness.

            Silence falls shortly after, and the sun is now high enough above the horizon for gold light to illuminate the back of Castiel’s head, halo-like. Then:

            “Dean Winchester, for an incredibly smart man, you can be infuriatingly dense sometimes.”

            Dean bristles. "Well, fuck you too, ass-"

            But Castiel cuts him off, steps forward to crowd Dean against the sliding glass doors, gets right into Dean’s face until Dean gets a whiff of burning ozone emanating off the angel. “For once in your life, Dean,  _hold your tongue_.” And, holy shit, even as Dean’s jaw snaps shut and he glowers back at Castiel, he can’t ignore the twitch he feels in his pants, nor the tattoo his heart is beating against his ribs in supplication. Dean’s almost forgotten what Castiel was like when Dean really pushed his buttons, that nerdy tax accountant persona giving way to the BAMF holy warrior of God who didn't take anyone’s shit and would manhandle Dean back to Hell if need be. It’s still as terrifying - and arousing - as it was five years ago. Castiel only continues speaking when he sure he's sure he commands every ounce of Dean’s attention. “Now as I was saying, I know you have a penchant for being a stubborn ass, but surely even you can argue with so large a piece of evidence as this?"

            Before Dean even knows what’s happening, Castiel is grabbing Dean’s hand and shoving it downward, pushing it right against his groin and sizable erection.

            “Oh. Um. Well . . .” Dean finally stutters out when the circuits in his brain are done misfiring. “That’s probably just-just your vessel re-reacting to the s-situation –”

            Castiel damn near  _snarls_ in frustration before releasing Dean’s hand. “Dammit, Dean! What are you afraid of?"

             "What? Nothing! I mean - I'm not, I don't -" Dean flounders, sputtering out incoherently. "I'm just trying to protect you, Cas!"

             "You may be able to lie to yourself, Dean, but don't you dare do it to me. Why do you refuse to see the truth when it’s staring you in the face?”

            “Because –”

            “Because what, Dean?” the angel pushes intently.

            “Because it doesn’t make sense, Cas!” Dean practically shouts. Cas rears his head back like a startled horse, but now that it’s out Dean can’t stop the torrent that pours out of him, the dam finally broken. “It’s  _never_  made sense! Any of it! Why the hell would you ever give a shit about me, why you would abandon your family and everything you knew just to take a fuckin’ chance on us humans? Look at me, I'm a fuckin mess! A complete fuck-up with more alcohol than blood running in my brains, who can't stop everyone around me from getting killed!" His voice embarrassingly breaks when he cries out in anguish, “Why would you ever want me, Cas?”

            When it’s over, it leaves Dean shaking and light-headed, strangely hollow, like he's just run a mile in a high-altitude environment with weights tied to his ankles. Breath stuttering out of him, his chin falls to collarbone, because he thinks that after everything he’s been through these last nine years plus his stint in Hell, what might finally break him would he seeing Castiel walk away from him now.

            The very last thing he expects is a hesitant hand, gently pushing its way through his hair, carding its long fingers through the short strands.

            “Dean, I won’t pretend that I fully understand what choices I'll make in my future that lead me to turning against Heaven. That journey still lies before me, long and shrouded from my foresight,” Castiel says softly, his hand still  _petting_  Dean’s hair, the gesture still unsure but undeniably affectionate. Dean finds himself leaning into it, needy and touch-starved. In the back of his head, a voice that sounds uncannily like his father's is hollering at him that this is Wrong. Unmanly. That a grown man just doesn't allow another grown man to touch him in such a manner, soft and intimate. Yet Dean can't find the strength in him to pull away. “But I  _know_ you are not half as wretched as you think of yourself.”

            Dean shakes his head. “You won’t be saying that 5 years from now,” he croaks out.

            Castiel tilts his head to the side, an almost-smile lighting up his eyes. “Perhaps you should ask  _him_  that.”

             Dean groans, all torn up inside, fighting the desire to reel Castiel in closer and never let him go, while at the same time struggling with the urge to push him away, tell Castiel to run and never look back. “Cas, you don’t know what you’re asking,” he insists vehemently, brokenly.

            The angel removes his hand from Dean’s hair, but only to curl it under his chin, tilting it to meet Castiel’s stern gaze once more. “I won’t do the disservice of lying to you, Dean. I want very much to return to my own time – to . . . to  _my_  Dean – as swiftly as possible. He needs my me and my sword, not you. You already have your own protection, even if he is human." The angel half-smiles wryly.

           "Cas, I -"

           "Please, let me finish," Castiel says, hand raised. "This is difficult enough. I  . . . I won’t even try to pretend that I feel a fraction of what he does for you. I’m simply not that man yet." Castiel inhales sharply, the admission seeming to cost him something, but the pang Dean feels doesn't sting as much as he thought it would. He's always known he's need Cas more than the angel has needed him. "But, Dean, . . . don’t doubt I want this, want  _only_  you. Dean, you are  _strong_ , and you are  _good_ , you care so  _deeply_ that it would give even an angel pause. Your soul is the brightest thing I've ever seen, brighter than all the starts in the sky and God's own light, and I feel blessed to have held it. Not even the racks of Hell could tarnish it. Yes, these feelings you've inspired in me are terrifying and unwieldy, but it only makes me certain they are real." When Dean continues to look dubious, Castiel adds, "If you say that I, as an angel, have free will, let me use it,” the angel says, and the blatant challenge underlying it nearly makes Dean smile. "But . . ." And here Castiel’s hand slips from Dean’s face back to the angel’s side. Already Dean misses the anchoring weight. “I won’t force you. If you truly don't want this, then I'll end the dream, and we'll find another way to send me and the others back. But if not . . . This has to be your choice, Dean, because I've already made mine.

            "So I ask this one once, Dean. Do you wish for me to stay?”

            He should say no. He should walk away, end this now, forget he ever got so close to having what he's always wanted. But this could be his one shot . . .

            “… Yes . . . Yeah, Cas, I do. More than I should." He huffs wryly. "Damn sure more than is good for you.”

            "Maybe you should allow me to decide that for myself," the angel replies, but his shoulders visibly straighten and the tiniest of smiles flashes on his face. It’s enough for a curl of warmth to bloom in Dean’s stomach, and he returns the smile hesitantly. Maybe . . . just maybe Angel Cas actually wants this at least a fraction as much as Dean does, as much as an angel fresh out of the Heavenly oven on shore leave is capable of experiencing sexual attraction like a human.

             Guess there’s only one way to find out. 

            “So . . . sex in a dream, huh?” Dean eases closer to Castiel, pulling out one of the dozens of flirty smirks out of his repertoire to cover his nerves. He reaches a hand out to tug gently at the trenchcoat. “Pretty kinky for an angel, Cas. Didn’t know you had it in you . . . Will this even work? For the spell?” he clarifies, because he’s totally only in for this to reverse the amulet’s curse.  _Totally._ “’Cause I gotta tell ya, this plan of yours doesn’t makes one lick of sense.”

“I believe it will succeed, with the aid of my grace. At the very least, it should be interesting to see any resulting effects,” Castiel muses, his hand coming slowly up to mold onto Dean’s hip, heavy and possessive.

            “And if it doesn’t?”

            Castiel shrugs, unconcerned. “If it doesn’t work, then no harm will come of it. We will simply try again in the waking world.”

             It’s not until Cas glances up at him through his eyelashes, squeezing at his hip, that Dean realizes the goddamn angel, in a roundabout way, just  _flirted_  at him.

            “You sly, dirty bastard,” Dean chuckles incredulously. The angel just slants his gaze up at Dean with a pleased look of his own. He leers at Cas, his unoccupied hand slipping under the trench coat to travel down Castiel’s back and cup his ass. His fingers press into the firm, rounded muscle, not quite squeezing, just giving Castiel a tantalizing glimpse of events to come. “So this is a strictly academic endeavor, then. For higher learning and stuff,” he teases, knowing full well it’s anything but. Right here, in this very moment, Dean is vividly aware this is going to be like no kind of sex he’s ever had before because it’s with  _Cas._ Not even Jimmy (and certainly not Leviathan) will be able to compare. “For  _science_!”

            “No, Dean,” Castiel answers seriously, always so goddamn literal that it’s nearly exasperating. “This is us making love.”

            Only an angel – no, only  _Cas_  – can say something so unbelievably cheesy and Lifetime Movie-esque, and have Dean believe he sincerely means it, not in the flippant way that humans do. To Castiel, why would two people have sex if not for love?  _If the pizzaman is in love with the babysitter, why does he keep slapping her rear?_ he had asked Dean all those years ago. Even though Dean knows the angel will be swayed from the notion the hard way in the coming years, he finds he has the inane urge to protect his purity, shower him with love so that he has something to hold onto in the years to come, even if he can’t remember it. A hidden talisman. 

            Or maybe Dean just wants to screw Castiel brains out until he won’t ever desire another lover. That could be it too.

            So before Castiel can spout out any more lovey-dovey, candy hearts crap, Dean takes his fistful of the trenchcoat and tugs Castiel forward into his welcoming mouth, determined to show Castiel  the perks of all those newfangled urges.

            And Dean leaves his uncertainties in the dust.

            Once again, Dean clearly catches the inexperienced angel by surprise, but at least time his initial reticence passes in the blink of an eye (or more accurately, the swipe of a tongue). Next thing Dean knows, Castiel is surging forward like a tidal wave, forcing Dean to backpedal until his back hits the glass door again. He soon finds himself held down by Castiel’s body, held there by his warm, heavy weight. That’s new – he’s never had a partner capable of manhandling him before, not without Dean allowing them to, anyway. Dean knows that if Cas really wanted to, he could use his supernatural strength to fuck Dean right here and now, pin him on the end of his dick, and Dean wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing to stop him. Instead of the icy fear he expects to slosh into his belly, Dean instead gasps when a jolt of arousal strikes his groin like lightning. The concept is all very . . . titillating. Huh. Dean never would have pegged himself for a dude who got off on his bed partners . . . dominating him (there he said it), but looks like Dean’s learning all kind of things about himself this week. Although maybe Rhonda Hurley was onto something with those pink silk panties of hers. . . .

            Angel Castiel and Dean quickly settle into a groove that’s strangely familiar – Dean’s still coming to terms with the fact that not only is he  _kissing Cas,_ but that this is the  _second_ occurrence – with Castiel’s long fingers returning to sift through the short strands of hair at the back of Dean’s skull like it’s their favorite place, while Dean’s own hands make a home for themselves at the sharp edge of Cas’s bared hipbone, framed by the thin dress pants. Lips sliding against the other, tongues getting involved once Dean coaxes a hesitant Cas into it. Their hips rock playfully against each other, less about finesse and more about revving the other up, and Dean wonders if he can lead Cas into inserting his thigh between Dean’s legs to grind against his returning erection. Fuck, it’s sexy, mouths hot and wet but surprisingly intimate for a good makeout party, just like it had been with Jimmy. . . .   

             _Ah, shit._

            “Wait. Wait, wait, hold up, Cas.” In what might be the single dumbest decision of Dean’s life, he breaks off from Castiel and his ravenous mouth. It earns him a full-blown  _growl_ issued from deep within Castiel’s chest, the angel glowering at Dean like he’s trying to take away his favorite toy for no good reason.

            “Dean, cease your inane fretting over my virtue this instant, or I will take matters into my own hands.” And sweet Lord in Heaven, Castiel actually takes his unraveled tie in hand, his eyes brimming with promise.

            “Okay, one: put that tie away before you hurt yourself, and just, um, give it to me, um," Dean tosses it over his shoulder. ". . . um, yeah. Two: I can’t believe you called your v-card ‘virtue.’ The Middle Ages called, princess. They want their outdated views on sexuality back. And thirdly: shockingly, it’s not about you; it’s about . . . Jimmy.”

            Castiel blinks, thrown by the non sequitur. “You . . . would prefer Jimmy to be present for this?” If Dean didn’t know any better, he would say that the implacable angel with a poker face to make any card shark jealous almost looks  _hurt_.

            “What? No! No, Cas, I just want to make sure if he’s on board with this." Dean makes a gesture indicating the two of them. "He’s still in that body, right?” With obvious reluctance, Castiel nods in confirmation. “Well, regardless that this is all a dream, I would feel better about the whole thing if Jimmy was on board with tonight’s main course, too.”

            “But his soul is dormant. Asleep. He won't what happens between us if I don't want him to.”

            “Still his body,” Dean protests adamantly, although in the privacy of his own thoughts he adds,  _For now._ When the angel remains reluctant, dithering on the spot, Dean says, “Come on, Cas. Just asks Jimmy for one more yes.”

            Castiel gives in with a sigh. “Fine. Give me a moment.” Castiel goes stock-still beneath Dean’s hands, his gaze turned inward. It's a little awkward, to be honest - Dean's just standing there in a dreamed up gas station with a raging hard-on and no outlet for release. Castiel probably wouldn't appreciate it if Dean rutted against his leg while he waited . . . 

            Thankfully, Dean doesn’t have to wait long for his return. When Castiel looks back up at Dean, his mouth is set in a grim line. “It would appear that James has some . . . reservations.”

            “Let me guess. He told you to go fuck yourself,” Dean replies, deadpanned.

            “Er, there was less profanity, but his message was still along the same lines.”

            Alarmingly, Castiel makes to start buttoning back up his shirt (although it’s a lost cause at this point), disappointment written clearly on his features, apparently convinced sex is now off the table. Before he can get far, Dean grabs his wrist.

            "Wait, I have an idea. Put me on the line.” He correctly predicts the confused look Cas shoots at him, so he clarifies, “Show him my memories. Of . . . of the other night.” Dean clears his throat self-consciously, risks a peak at Castiel through his eyelashes, but the angel seems merely interested in Dean’s plan, neither judgmental nor envious.

            As if reading his mind – which is a definite possibility when dealing with a fully juiced-up angel – Castiel reaches out to take hold of Dean’s hip, thumb sweeping across the ridge of bone through his layers of clothing in reassurance. “I’m not jealous of the time you spent with my vessel, Dean. Quite the contrary.” He pauses, lips pursed, searching for words. “It’s still difficult to sort through this gnarled tangle of emotions I’ve recently found myself saddled with, but incredulously I find myself . . .  _pleased_ you found comfort in each other. You are both good men, and therefore deserve good things. You most especially, Dean.”

            Dean’s mouth twists in self-deprecation. “So I’ve been told,” he mutters wryly.

            "Hush. None of that now." A hand on his chin gently but pointedly tilts his head up until he meets Castiel’s sad-eyed gaze. The dream could last for a hundred years and Dean thinks he would never get used to intimate gestures like these between himself and Castiel. It’s going to devastate him when he will be forced to give them up again.

            Castiel speaks, interrupting Dean from his darkening thoughts. “I wish you would try harder to think better of yourself, Dean, if only because it dissatisfies me to watch you bind yourself to impossible standards. It's a terrible burden on your soul.”

            “Hey, hey, knock it off with that soul-stuff, you’ll go blind,” Dean deflects glibly, blushing. He does place his own hand on the angels, leaning into the touch. “You gonna show Jimmy boy or no?"

            “Yes, I . . . Oh!”

            “Oh? Oh what? Don’t keep me hanging, Cas.”

            “Jimmy is having second thoughts . . .  He has changed his mind and given us his blessing.”

             "Did you show him everything?" Dean queries, astonished. Things are never this easy for him and Cas.

             Castiel shakes his head slowly, seemingly just as baffled as Dean. "Jimmy says he can see how much you need this, and does not wish to stand in the way of that"

            “Thanks, Jimmy,” Dean breathes out, touching his forehead against the angel's and staring deep into Castiel's eyes like he can see Jimmy's soul if he tries hard enough, hoping that if Novak can't see him Cas will at least relay the message. “Is he, uh . . . is Jimmy gonna watch? 'Cause if that’s his thing, I can’t say I’m one hundred percent against a little vessel voyeurism. . .”

             Something glints in Castiel’s eyes and without a word of warning, he’s reeling Dean back to his chest, swooping in to mash him mouth against Dean’s. He pulls back just long enough to rasp out, “This is between you and me, Dean.  _And I don’t share._ ”

            “Then put Jimmy back to sleep and get your smug face back here,” Dean challenges back, slipping his hand behind Castiel’s head to crush his lips to Dean’s.

            Pesky consent issues now safely out of the way, Dean and Castiel really kick things into high gear, hands migrating in every direction as they fight to get as close together as physically possible. Without any prompting from Dean, Castiel eventually discovers there are more interesting parts on Dean other than just his mouth, and slowly makes his own path down Dean’s jaw, nipping once and then a second time when it elicits an involuntary moan, before setting up camp at Dean’s neck, nuzzling like an overaffectionate cat as spreads wet little kisses up and down. Dean can only hold on for dear life, palming desperately at Castiel’s bared ribs.

             “Jimmy was right. Stubble weird, but good-weird,” Dean pants as he gasps for breath, relishing the burn as the angel’s perpetual five o’clock shadow abrades against the sensitive skin of his neck.

            “Dean . . .”

“Right, right. Shutting up about Jimmy now.”

            “ _Dean_.”

            “ _What_ , Cas? I said I’ll –”

            With a departing nip at the base of Dean’s throat that holds him to silence, Castiel moves up to hover beside Dean’s ear, his warm breath tickling. “From what I understand, you’re wearing far too much clothing for copulation.”

            Dean makes sure the angel sees his grimace. “I think I preferred 'making love.'”

            The insistent tugging at his jacket suggests his nit-picking over linguistics is not appreciated. “Take this off.  _Now_.”

            With a smart-ass smirk, Dean complies easily enough. “Okie dokie, then.” He whips his jacket off,  _just_  his jacket, then waits for Cas, wiggling his eyebrows.

            Instead of the pissed-off, grabby hands that Dean had been hoping for, Castiel just coolly responds with, “You forget, Dean. This is a dream, and I have just as much control in it as you do.”

            Next thing Dean knows, his skin is breaking out in goosebumps, and he's thinking,  _Someone open a window?_  But a quick glance down and, oh, hey, his clothes are missing, and he’s buck-naked, standing in the middle of convenience store with his erection sticking in the air to proudly salute Castiel.

             _Well, that’s certainly handy,_ is what he means to say, but all that comes out is a breathy, “Hot  _damn_.”

            Castiel doesn’t even take the time to look suitably smug, just prowls closer to Dean with a dark, heated gaze that blasts Dean like a summer breeze, curling his toes in anticipation where they rest on the linoleum floor.

            “Hey, hey. Hold up, hot stuff,” Dean murmurs huskily as Castiel wraps his large hands back around Dean’s waist, pulling in him so he can return to sliding his lips up and down Dean’s neck, along his shoulders and collarbones. Pants tenting, his thigh brushes against Dean’s own cock, and Dean has to stifle a groan before he can continue. “This ain’t a one-man party. Lose the hobo suit.”

He chuckles at the long-suffering sigh huffed into his skin in response, but it’s worth it when Cas decides to humor Dean, although the quirk of his lips tips Dean off that the angel plans on torturing him a bit first. Meeting Dean’s gaze steadily,  Castiel steps back to shrug off his clothing, leaving the angel’s body bare to Dean's hungry gaze. 

            “You no longer seem to mind my gazing upon your naked form,” the angel observes, giving Dean a look that can only be described as sultry.

           “Yeah, well, now I get to look too,” Dean answers lowly, pure, unbridled  _want_ permeating his words. It’s the same body as Jimmy’s – slim waist, toned thighs, hipbones made for eating off of – but the way it moves is completely different. A smooth, stalking glide that speaks of preternatural origins, power and grace all rolled into one tight package.

           Five years he’s waited for this. It’s about damn time he did more than  _look_.  

            Tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, Dean reaches out to cover Castiel’s right pectoral muscle in his hand, sweeping his thumb to brush over Cas’s nipple and it accompanying little freckle – Dean’s new favorite feature on Castiel’s work-of-art body. The shiver and interested hum it elicits is gratifying, Castiel pushing up into his hand as he pulls Dean closer, the brown nub pebbling under Dean’s fingers as he sweeps back around.

            But then his gaze drifts to the pile of clothes lying discarded at Castiel’s bare feet, and inspiration – as well as memories of past fervid fantasies – strikes him.

            “Wait, hold up a sec.” He slips past Castiel to hunker down at the pile, paws through it until he finds what he’s looking for. “Wear this.”  

            “My . . . overcoat?” As to be expected, Castiel is suitably bemused, maybe even a little suspicious. “That seems counterproductive to our intended goal.”

            “No, no, it’ll . . .” Shit, Dean can’t even fully explain to himself why he wants Cas to wear it –  _other than being totally fuckin’ hot –_ so he doesn’t know where to start with Cas. “Just wear it. For me.” He throws in puppy dog eyes for good measure, and although he’s not Sam, it does the trick.

             Rolling his eyes with a much aggrieved sigh, the angel takes his coat from Dean and shrugs it on, muttering something under his breath about Dean and his unconventional fetishes and,  _what the hell would an angel know about unconventional fetishes anyway?_

            But seeing Castiel wearing nothing but the trenchcoat does  _things_ to Dean, makes want to prop the angel up on the hood of the Impala and spray him down with a hose until his dripping wet.  His cock twitches, and Dean murmurs throatily, “Shut up and lay one on me, Cas,” grabbing the angel by his lapels and reeling him in before Castiel can get too literal on him again. They slot back together seamlessly, two pieces of a whole.

           Skin on skin contact. Tongue slipping slickly against each other. Cocks rutting, bumping into stomachs and leaving sticky trials of precome behind. Things quickly elevate into hot and heavy as Dean and Castiel stand there, entwined, kissing in a dreamed up Gas-N-Sip. Tall guy that he is, Dean isn’t used to making out with people near the same height as him while standing up, and he quickly discovers its advantages and unique pleasures, how easy it is for him to tilt Castiel’s head up gently, their ruddy-headed cocks rubbing furiously against each other.

             Dean comes up for air long enough to whisper into Castiel’s ear, “What do you want, Cas? Tell me, I’ll give you everything. Make you feel so good, together we’ll make Heaven blush.”

            “Hmm . . . Alright then,” Cas starts off dubiously, but then he cocks his head in consideration, a shrewd look in his eye that Dean knows doesn't bode well for him. “If I keep my coat, will you allow me to keep a personal effect on you?”

            Ah, sure?” Dean says cautiously, hoping he doesn’t live to eat his words.

            Slowing down his movements until he’s just barely brushing their groins together, Castiel flits his gaze to Dean’s arm where the Mark remains, the same vividly red, raised scar it is in the waking world.

            “I would prefer not to see a demon’s taint on your skin when we copulate.”

             “You can take it off me?” Dean asks, pulse fluttering, hesitant. . . .

            “Not in the way you’re thinking,” Castiel states flatly, before Dean’s concerns take root. “Even if we were awake, I don’t think my grace would be enough to physically remove it. This is Lucifer’s work – something no mere seraph can eradicate.” He adds, so quietly Dean nearly fails to catch it, “No matter how much I may wish to.”

            “So you think I’m tainted then?” Dean asks before he can stop himself, voice trembling just a hair. He keep his eyes locked on the Mark, away from Castiel and whatever emotion his face he might betrayed. “Like you think Sam is an abomination for his demon blood? Sammy didn’t even ask for it, Mom made the deal with Azazel before he was even born. I  _did,_ Cas. I chose it. Cain didn’t have a gun to my head. I need it to so I can finally clean up my own fucking mess.”

            “You misunderstood me. I . . . don’t think  _you_  are tainted.”

             Dean snorts. “Liar. That’s not what you implied back in my room.”

            “No, Dean, please hear me out.” There’s a pause, and then Castiel’s hand is back in his hair, hesitant fingers running through the short hands at his scruff. Dean figures he should just be thankful Cas isn’t patting the top of his head like one would a dog; the angel has a lot to learn about human affections. Still, he shouldn’t complain. Even though this could well be considered _petting_ , this is  . . . nice. A touch more affectionate than Dean’s had in ages. “Yes, it is true you now carry a demon’s mark. But is it any different from when you marked your soul with a deal to save your brother? Your ultimate goal is still protecting those you love, noble and righteous,  _good_  – although once again, I find that a growing part of me detests that your choices constantly put you in the line of fire.”

            Dean allows himself a small smile, leans into Cas’s touch because hey, he’s naked in a lucid dream, no one here to tell him no. “Some things never change then, I guess . . .  So what do ya wanna to do with it if you can’t take it off?”

           Castiel smirks, the smallest crook in the corner of his mouth. “I said I can’t remove it in the waking world; I never said anything about here.”

           Without further ado, the angel reaches out, resting his palm on Dean’s right forearm. Dean braces himself for the ants-crawling-under-his-skin feeling he usually gets when something foreign brushes against the Mark, but it never comes, just the pleasant warmth of Castiel’s palm. There’s a brief flash of blue-white light, and when Castiel pulls his hand away, he leaves Dean’s skin unblemished, devoid of anything except freckles and gold-dusted hair.

            But when Dean moves to pull his arm up for inspection, Castiel curls a hand around his waist.

           “Stay still,” he orders. “I’m not finished yet.”

            Swallowing down his trepidation, Dean watches mutely as Castiel’s hand moves cautiously up his arm towards Dean’s shoulder and –  _oh._

           The angel molds his palm to the thick bicep, fingers spread, closes his eyes as if in deep concentration. Another flash of light, brighter than the last, and Dean releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding only when Castiel removes his hand to reveal the new mark, as red and puffy as the day Dean first laid bewildered and terrified eyes on it.

            Castiel’s handprint.

            “You wanna talk about fetishes now, tough guy?” Dean barks in laughter, reaches his other hand around to touch a finger to the scar. For some reason he had thought it would be hot – like  _newly burned into his flesh_ hot – but it’s body-temperature, maybe a degree or two warmer than the surrounding skin.

            “Trust me, Dean, you’ll be thanking me later,” Castiel promises with a throaty whisper that’s unlike anything he’s ever heard come out of Castiel’s throat before, sending a shiver dancing up Dean’s spine. To demonstrate, Castiel catches Dean’s gaze once to make his intentions known before bringing a finger to hover near the mark, brushing the finger against the raised skin with only the lightest of touches.

            It still manages to send a goddamn spark of white lightning to zip from his arm all the way to his groin, his naked cock bobbing to nudge against Castiel’s upper thigh.

            “Holy fuck,” Dean pants out, latching a hand onto Castiel’s trenchcoat-covered shoulder as his knees wobble under him, threatening to collapse with his weight.

            “Yes, I have something like that in mind,” Castiel agrees, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him up, “but not yet. I rather save that for the main event.”

             A high-pitched, needy-sounding whine erupts between them, startling Dean when he realizes it was from  _him_.

            “Tease,” he accuses breathlessly, still clinging to Angel Castiel, gasping when the angel begins nuzzling at his neck, mouthing hot, open kisses before biting gently at the loose skin of his scruff. “Dammit, Cas, I’m only human. Mercy  . . .” He trails off into a moan.

            “We'll start when you’re ready,” Castiel insists obstinately, although his voice already sounds wrecked to hell, his control seconds away from shattering.

             "Hey, I'm not the billions-year-old virgin here. I'm ready to go." Dean protests. 

             " _Dean_."

            Smiling at the irony of consent, Dean turns his head just enough to brush his lips against the angel’s ear. “ _Yes.”_

Next thing Dean knows he’s being tipped backwards until he’s falling in a kaleidoscope of dark colors until he ends up lying sprawled on his back, letting loose a surprised, “Oomph!” when he bounces on a soft, springy surface – a bed, he realizes belatedly. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he looks around in confusion. The Gas-N-Sip and all its rows of food are gone. They’re in a motel room, of all things. Day has turned to night with the yellow glow of outside parking lot light seeping through the curtains, two twin beds, ugly patterned wallpaper, shag carpet that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the seventies – honestly, it could be any one of the millions Dean has spent a night in over the course of his lifetime.        

            The mattress dipping slightly with his added weight, Castiel moves to crawl up the bed and hover over him, practically sitting in Dean’s lap, so that the bottom of his trenchcoat is covering Dean’s thighs. The idea that he should berate the angel for changing the venue without warning him passes and goes, shoved aside by more pressing matters – chiefly, the long, thick organ currently bobbing between Castiel’s legs, its nearly purple head gazing up at Dean as solemnly as its owner.

            Whatever must be running through his head must also show on his face, because Castiel, in a voice laced with concern, questions, “Dean, what’s wrong?”

             “That’s your dick . . .  I mean, I just saw Jimmy’s dick last night, I don’t know why this is surprising. Did I think it would look different? I mean, it’s not like I was expecting a little dinky halo or something –” He realizes he’s blathering uncontrollably at this point, and takes great pains to stop.

             Brow still furrowed in bemusement, Castiel replies, “Well, technically this still  _is_  Jimmy Novak’s penis–”

            “Aw, come on, Cas, don’t call your junk that!”

             Castiel flounders, obviously trying to come up a way to please Dean’s baffling request to come up with proper terminology for male sex organs. “Would you prefer genitals?” he asks hesitantly.

            “No, I wouldn’t, I want you to stop making this sound like sex ed!” Dean huffs. “Say it with me, Cas. Cock. Dick.”

            “I don’t understand, Dean. It’s a male penis. No matter what you call it, it'll still be sticky and awkwardly painful and stupid looking. My Father wasn't thinking about aesthetics when he created penises. ”

            Dean rolls his eyes. “Hey, wise-ass, you gonna keep making jokes or are you gonna get down here?”

            The angel’s eyes go hooded, and he doesn’t exactly smirk at Dean, but it upper lip twitches in a half-snarl right before Castiel growls out, “Only if you promise to keep your mouth open,” and descends on Dean, mashing their lips together in his enthusiasm to work his tongue back into Dean’s more-than-willing mouth.

            Dean doesn’t waste an ounce of energy on suppressing the moan that vibrates up his throat, jerking his hips upwards when Castiel begins licking the roof of Dean’s mouth as though he intends to swallow up the needy noise. Long fingered hands come up to frame his face (his  _entire_  face, no petite, dainty woman hands to be found here) and hold him still so Castiel can slide his lips across Dean’s with ease, steadily growing bolder with his tongue and – eventually – teeth. Pinned completely flat to the bed as he is by Castiel’s weight, it leaves Dean’s one hand free to latch onto the flyaway tufts of Cas’ hair,  the other to slip under the trenchcoat, his palm traveling across the angel’s rib cage, down to the small of his back, coming to rest on his pert ass. While there are better positions they could be doing this in, a little wiggling Dean gets enough leverage to press his swollen hard-on right beside Cas's, pumping his hips up to rub them together.

           “Ah, Dean, do that again!” Castiel chokes out as he grinds down to meet Dean, bouncing in Dean’s lap. " _Now."_

            “Such a sweet-talker,” Dean chuckles breathlessly. He releases the hand embedded in Cas’s hair, licks the palm and slips his hand down between their moving bodies to wrap around their cocks. Thanks to the heavy globs of slick precome of that are leaking out of Castiel’s sloppy dick, the glide of Dean’s palm up the thick lengths of the members is effortless, Dean going from 0 to sixty in the space of seconds. it doesn’t take much – a corkscrew twist as his hand descends, a flick of his thumb over the plummy heads – to pull an agonized cry out of Castiel. It’s a bit trickier to keep up when the angel begins fucking his dick ruthlessly in Dean’s hand in search of that titillating friction, but Dean will be damned before he lets go, his hand practically magnetized to the smooth dance of their jerking cocks.

            For a few moments, Dean contents himself with watching the beatific image of his and Castiel’s cocks fisted in his hand, their mixed precome dribbling out to land in sticky spots on Dean’s happy trail. But he finds he can’t keep his eyes away from Castiel’s face for long, too entranced with the way high spots of color that have spread across the angels’ cheekbones, though his breathing remains relatively steady; how he stares reverently down at Dean, the small ring of blue in his dilated eyes glittering with what might very well be grace. A galaxy in Castiel’s eyes.

            Dean decides right then and there that he would do anything to please this ethereal being, have him turn away from his God if only for a moment, leave his mark.

            Damn near out of his mind with desire, the words tumble out of him, needy and pleading. “God, Cas, please, I wanna suck your cock, I’d give anything, please,  _please_  just let me blow you.”

            Castiel immediately freezes above him, stunned to silence. The impulse to take it all back, deny he ever spoke, flies to his lips, but he just manages to bite them back.  _Never get another chance,_ he reminds himself.

            Still hovering over Dean with sturdy arms, Castiel chokes out, in the most uneven tone Dean’s ever heard from the angel, “You m-mean . . . you mean you –w-wish to put y-your mouth . . . on my . . .?”

            “Yeah. Wanna give it a try? Bet you do,” Dean says, smirking when he catches the flicker of Castiel’s heavy-lidded gaze to his lips. Because Dean’s a complete shit, he makes sure to swipe his tongue along his bottom lip, drag his front teeth along the same spot. “Got you thinking about it now, don’t I?”

            Clearly Castiel is, but he’s not giving in that easily. “I think you’re bluffing” he murmurs, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his pink mouth as he leans in to run his nose along the line of Dean’s jaw. “A minute ago you refused to look at it. I can always leave if you –”

            For the love of –” Impatient, worked up, and incredibly horny, Dean decides to take matters into his own hands, working his right leg out from under Cas to hook it around the back of the angel’s flank. Speed and surprise give him the advantage to catch Castiel off guard and roll them until it’s Cas who’s lying sprawled across the mattress with a startled, frankly comical expression and his trenchcoat fanning under him, Dean the one grinning down at him with boyish delight.

            “How about we get your halo a little crooked?” Dean suggests, settling himself between Castiel’s legs.

            “Dean, what are you –  _Achk_!”

             Smirking, Dean releases the grip of his teeth on Castiel’s nipple, licks the reddened skin in apology, makes a pass at the little freckle. He switches between its brother, diligently lapping and nipping at the flesh, until both peaks are erect and wet, reminding Dean of his destination. With Castiel properly hushed, he makes his way down the angel’s torso. Dean takes his time, savors the experience like he would top-shelf whiskey. Licks along his flank to count his ribs, bites at his hips until purple-red bruises form, leaving Castiel gasping his name in a mewling demand. His hands get in on the action, one anchoring itself to the swell of Castiel’s perfect ass, the other smoothing up and down his side in soothing motions. 

            Starting down the angel’s dark-haired treasure trail, he glances up through his eyelashes at Castiel to gauge his reaction, sees the angel staring at him, wild-eyed and open-mouthed, hands gripping the sheets like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

            At the last moment Dean decides to detour past Castiel’s cock, nosing pass close enough to make sure the angel can feel the hot moisture of his breath as his mouth flirts dangerously close to his jutting dick. Above him, Castiel snarls in disapproval, bucking his hips to search for the promise Dean steals away, the tip of his cock bumping against Dean’s cheek to smear precome.

            “Dean!” The name is sharp, demanding. It hooks under Dean's skin, brings his own arousal to simmering boil to hear the usually unflappable angel so undone by something as base as human lust.

            Even though his own cock is aching, he ignores Castiel, instead digs his fingers into the meaty part of Castiel’s thighs, hard enough that if this Castiel was human he would leave bruises, as he begins fastidiously kissing and biting the sensitive skin, skirting as close to Castiel’s balls as he dares. Underneath his hands, he can feel the muscles quivering with the effort to stay still.

           But Dean’s no saint, and this sure as hell ain’t charity. It’s time for him to take a little for himself.

           He leans up a little to rest his chin in the spur of Castiel’s hip, bites lightly at the bone stretched tight over the skin to get Castiel’s attention. “Watch me, Cas.”

            Basking in the limelight that is the angel’s direct stare, Dean wraps one hand lightly around the base of Castiel’s dick and, never once breaking their connected gaze, licks a long, wet stripe up the underside of the member, following the visibly bulging vein.

            Castiel’s reaction is instantaneous. His hips jerk up involuntarily, and Dean would have lost an eye to Castiel’s cock if he hadn’t anticipated the motion, moving back in the nick of time. “ _Dean!”_

            “Don’t worry, Cas. I got this. But you gotta keep your hips still. Can you do that for me, big boy?” Dean smirks, strokes up the length of Casitel's generous-sized cock.

            The shaky, dazed nod Dean gets in response isn’t all that reassuring, so as an extra precaution he rests his weight on Castiel’s muscular thighs, one hand remaining at the base of Castiel’s dick with the other wrapped around his hip, although Dean doesn’t know how much good it’ll do. Cas’s strength could send Dean flying off the bed on a single ill-timed buck if the angel’s not careful.  

             With Castiel secured nice and proper, Dean quickly gets back to work, taking Castiel’s cockhead back into his mouth, stopping before he goes too deep. He suckles on the head with great care, wrapping his lips around it and twirling his tongue along the slit. Precome beads onto his tongue, but it’s sweeter than Dean remembers, the bitter tang underlined with a taste like pineapple. Must be an angel thing, he concludes. Meanwhile, Castiel is shaking minutely below him, little tremors racking up his body, his breathing hitching. God, it’s a crying shame that it’s been years since Deans’s done this, back when he used to turn the occasional trick to put food on the table for Sam, or the even rarer occurrence of meeting someone he actually wanted outside of a bar. He’d forgotten just how good he is at giving head. 

            Dean takes the hand pinning down Castiel’s hip and uses it to loosen Castiel’s death-grip on the sheets, maneuvering it to the back of his head. He bobs his head a few times until Castiel gets the message, hesitantly burying his fingers in Dean’s hair until he has a secure grip, just a shade shy of  _too_  painful. It’s a comforting weight, keeps Dean in the moment.

            Still bobbing his head, his lips keeping firm pressure like a hot wet band, Dean twists his tongue in a corkscrew around the velvety skin of the shaft, pulling out all the stops as he descends slowly down the length of Castiel’s dick, pumping his hand the spots his tongue can’t reach. As he works, Castiel’s grip in his hair gets tighter and tighter, tugging once or twice when Dean’s tongue hits a particularly sensitive spot. It makes Dean braver, ready to put his skills to the test. He backs off Castiel’s cock, takes a deep breath, then dives back in, swallowing it down in one go, his tongue corkscrewing down the meaty length the entire way. He makes it all the way down, his nose burying into the dark hair at the base – apparently, he doesn’t have a gag reflex when he’s dreaming. Dean files that tidbit away for later.

            Sweat glistens on every inch of Castiel’s flushed skin, the not-quite musky scent building to a heady aroma between his legs. “Dean,  _Dean,_ please – it’s too much!” the angel gasps. “I, I  _feel_ –”

            When Dean releases Castiel’s dick, messy with spit and precome, to duck under and nudge his nose teasingly at his balls, sucking first one in and then the other, Castiel makes a sound like he’s dying, nearly taking several strands of Dean’s hair. It gives Dean an idea; he only hopes Castiel is game.

            Making sure to produce an extra-sloppy-slurp when he releases Castiel’s testicles, Dean pops up to asks in a voice made hoarse and rough from the blowjob, “You wanna fuck my mouth, Cas?”

            Castiel raises his head a few inches to peer at Dean blearily, face flushed a hot pink and brows drawn. “Dean . . .? I thought . . . I thought you didn’t want me to . . .”

            “Changed my mind. Guess it’s easier in Dreamland,” Dean says, landing a gentle kiss at the tender underside of Castiel’s knee. “Come on, Cas," he says as he nuzzles the scruff of his cheek against him. "Wanna make you feel so good. Turn you inside out.” When it does nothing to sway Castiel from his hesitance, he adds, with full sincerity, “And I want it too. Promise.”

            Nearly an entire goddamn minute passes before Castiel finally nods, his breath shuddering out of him. He runs his hands back through Dean’s hair, thumb brushing down the side.  “Just tell me what to do.”

             Dean’s smile hitches in the corner. “Wait for my signal, and hold on tight.”

            The angel actually braces his feet against the mattress, grabs fistfuls of the sheets again, shooting Dean a wary, squinty-eyed look as he does. It's strangely endearing, makes Dean's heart squeeze in his chest.

            Dean squeezes the angel’s thigh once in reassurance before scooching up, only making eye contact with Castiel once because he’ll need his complete focus for this. Using Castiel’s hips to support his weight, Dean takes another deep breath before opening wide, reclaiming the ruddy head of Castiel’s cock and slipping down, down, down, inch after inch, the thick shaft sliding past his teeth and tickling the back of his throat. He hums, swallowing, loving how Castiel’s hand tightens in response. It feels so good to be stuffed like this, lips stretched wide and tears already beginning to leak at the corners of his eyes, but Dean wants more.

            He pulls back just enough so that only the spitting head of Castiel’s dick remains in his mouth, in position and ready. He taps lightly on Castiel’s flank, and prepares himself.

            With obvious hesitance Castiel begins slowly, only making shallow, slow jabs past Dean’s lips, seemingly too afraid of hurting Dean to really get put some force into it. Patience wearing thin, Dean has half a mind to bite him lightly on the glands in punishment if Castiel doesn’t pick up the goddamn pace soon.

            Instead, Dean tries shaking things up. Every time Castiel’s cock begins to slide back, Dean flicks the tip of his tongue along the length, hums when it thrusts back in, grabs the meaty globes of the angel’s ass and slaps him like one would a horse,  encourages Castiel to get over his issues and  _fuck his face._

Dean’s plan works. Slowly, Castiel’s tightly reined-in control beings to unravel, his inhumanly-steady breathing becoming sharp and erratic, the muscles under Dean’s fingers twitching with the effort of not coming completely undone. The hand returns to the back of Dean’s head, though only resting lightly on the back of Dean’s skull, not pushing him forward, but not letting him escape either. Little breathy grunts, surprisingly soft from such a usually gruff voice, fill the air to accompany the wet sounds. The angel’s hips are gaining speed, until soon the full length of Cas’s cock in plunging into the warm cavern of Dean’s mouth and tagging the back of his throat with every push. Dean’s gagging reflex submits to the assault, allowing Dean to focus on his own pleasure, his senses overrun with everything Castiel - his moans, his taste, his scent - veins sizzling with boiling heat.

            The power of giving Castiel an experience he’s never had is heady, and Dean moans from genuine pleasure. Castiel grunts in response, cock twitching in Dean’s mouth, fingers tightening once on his neck.

Dean knows the angel’s close when he gasps out in a completely  _wrecked_ voice, “ _Dean, It’s too much – I – I – I’m_  –!”

             _Don’t fight it, Cas,_ Dean thinks desperately, screws up his concentration and pushes the thought out. Maybe in Dreamland, the angel can pick the thought up like a wayward radio signal.  _Just let it go._

            Whether from that or just pure coincidence, Castiel’s hips immediately stutter, pistoning up one last time to get his cock as far deep down Dean’s throat as possible. Cas groans once, a long, drawn-out sound from deep in his chest thats breaks into Dean’s name, and then liquid heat is slipping down Dean’s throat. Castiel’s hips stutter again and the next pulse hits Dean squarely on the tongue, a salty, bitter explosion of warmth on his tongue. For the first time in his life he swallows instead of spits out the load – or at least tries to, there’s too much for him to get it all, and a little bit dribbles pass his lips to trickle down his chin. Dean is vaguely aware of a sound like tarp blowing in the wind, but the rest of him is too focused on soaking every little detail up and committing it to memory, eyes closed and breathing in through his nose as he waits.

             Seconds pass – or possibly hours, days, weeks, he couldn’t care less – broken only by the slow decrease of Castiel's panted breathing, but when Castiel makes no moves to pull his softening dick out of Dean’s mouth, Dean pulls off himself and sits up, wipes away the line of spit that still connects mouth to dick.

            “So, Cas, was that awesome or wh –” Dean’s words stop dead in their tracks as he glances up, his mouth still agape. Dean scrubs at his eyes with his fists, blinks once, twice, three times, but the mirages refuse to disappear. In a tone of hushed awe, he breathes out, “Cas . . .”

            A sated, post-orgasm Castiel is a sight behold: hair matted down with sweat to curl against his forehead, eyes sparkling, mouth as red as his heaving chest. But it’s the two giant wings -  _Castiel’s_ wings - that have sprouted from between his shoulder blades and through the fabric of the trenchcoat that capture Dean’s attention, large enough to hide the headboard form view and the tips trailing along the carpet below. A mosaic of inky blacks, dark blues, and violets, flight feathers as long as Dean’s arm, they’re more gorgeous than he could have ever imagined, even if they seem to Dean somewhat ruffled and ungroomed – as messy as Castiel’s hair.

          Even as he’s overcome with wonderment, Dean feels a sharp stab of grief. Never before has he as keenly realizes the depth of Castiel’s lost as he has now, the physical proof practically laid before his feet.

            “Do they always look like this?” Dean asks softly, eyes still glued to the shifting appendages. He desperately wants to reach a hand out, but he’s unsure if his would be welcomed. Somehow touching Cas’s dick doesn’t seem the same as touching his wings, the very extension of Castiel’s grace.

            “No,” Cas says eventually when he gathers up his remaining brain cells, turning a thoughtful gaze to the appendages. “It’s impossible to describe them in any way that humans can completely comprehend, but my wings are made more from light waves than any actual form of matter.”

            “Oh,” Dean says, disappointed he still won’t get to see Cas’s actual wings.

            “Although . . . this is surprisingly accurate representation of their color in my trueform. I suppose you might say this is how you would see my wings if they didn’t burn your eyes out.” Cas smiles to himself. A single wingtip reaches up and over Castiel's shoulder to extend outward, brushing a dark feather against Dean's cheek. It certainly feels like a real feather, although it leaves a light tingling in its wake.“My wings have become yours.”

            Long moments pass before Dean’s composure breaks and he lets loose a rather rude snort. “Dude. That’s gotta be like . . . the most sappiest thing I’ve ever heard of, and I use to watch lifetime movies with Lisa and Ben. You complete cheese-head.”

             Castiel hums, pulling his wings back. “I’m glad you find it so amusing, but I’m not done with you yet.” He easily raises himself into a sitting position, latching a hand onto Dean’s non-handprint shoulder to bring him forward. The angel licks hungrily into Dean’s mouth,  _thoroughly,_ and when Dean realizes it because he's sweeping up every trace of his own spend, he groans at the shot of arousal the thought sends zipping through him, every beat of his jack-hammering heart _Cascascas_.

           " _Cas,"_ he whines against the angel’s lips, frantically rutting his neglected erection against Castiel's knee. “ _Touch_ me. Just  -” He grunts, desperate for relief, ready to dive of the cliff headfirst. “Just do _something_ –”

             “As you wish,” Castiel murmurs hoarsely, and before Dean can even wonder if the angel has been sneaking peaks of _The Princes Bride,_ he’s being rolled over onto his back again. He flickers his gaze down, lets out a soft gasp of, “ _Oh,_ ” as he watches Castiel’s cock – the very same he sucked to glorious competition no mere moments ago – rapidly refill with blood, already half-hard. No refractory periods for angels apparently.

            _Cas could fuck me,_ Dean thinks as he lays there with the angel looming over him, dark wings outstretched to spread across the room, his brain fizzing with the rush of pheromones and lack of blood. _Open me up right here, hold me down and take me –_

Which is why when Castiel reaches behind himself, one finger outstretched, Dean blurts out, “What are you doing?” before his head can tell him to shut up.

            Castiel freezes like he’s been caught red-handed, turns hesitant eyes on Dean, stumbles out, “I’m preparing myself for anal penetration.” It’s nearly a question, Castiel looking to Dean for guidance – no, not that, _permission_. His voice is so rough from exertion that it even makes such a gross-sounding phrase sexy.

            Caught in a riot of conflicting emotions – lust, confusion, both relief _and_ disappointment (which, what the absolute fuck?) – Dean can only say, “Oh.”

            Of all the nuances of humanity that continuously fly over Castiel’s head, the one thing he _would_ catch onto is the minutest shift in Dean’s emotional climate. “Dean, what’s wrong? Do you not want to be the penetrating partner?”

            “Of course I want to be the top!” he rushes out before he can even wonder if it’s a lie or not. “And _Jesus,_ Cas – stop using the word _penetrating._ Okay, you know what, new rule for dealing with humans. Avoid the words penetrating and moist at all costs.”

            But Castiel isn’t distracted as easily into arguing this time. “You’re going off on a tangent,” he says, peering closely at Dean. “You only do that when you’re nervous and want someone to look the other way.” As he moves his hand away, he says, “If you’re having second thoughts, we can –”

           “Did I say wanted to stop?” Dean bites out, his patience frayed and erection flagging. Of all the times for Castiel to suddenly to become a chatterbox . . . “It’s just . . .” The urge to simply  _ask_ for what he wants is on the tip of his tongue, but he loses his nerve, says instead, “Are _you_ sure you’re okay bottoming? Being the girl or whatever . . .?” he trails off into a sheepish mumble at the unimpressed eyebrow-raise Castiel shoots at Dean.

            “Although my grasp of human sexuality is limited at best,” the angel rumbles out primly, “I highly doubt positions during fortification have any bearing on the social constructs of masculinity or femininity. Either way, my personal identity is not tied into vessel’s previous sexuality.” Which Dean figures in Cas-inese for _I don’t give a shit about human gender hang-ups_. “Dean, if you care to hear my opinions, I would quite like it if you would . . . _fuck_ me.”

            Dean just barely holds back a whimper, forgets all about his weird disappointment from before, can’t think of anything else with Castiel staring down at him with kiss-swollen lips, hair tangled from his own two hands, and urgent lust rekindling in his eyes. “I wanna fuck you, too, Cas. Here, put your hands down, you mook. Let me – let me prep you.”

            Castiel actually has the gall to shoot him a pissy look.

            “Dean, I am an angel. Furthermore, this is a dream, and pain is dulled. I think I am capable of adequately handling a small matter of self-preparation.”

             “Yes, but that doesn’t make up for foreplay. Promise, Cas, you’ll like what I got up my sleeves.”

             “Your metaphorical sleeves, I’m assuming?” Castiel returns, perfectly deadpan for the telltale smirk. But he allows Dean to push him onto his back all the same, wings pulled high so Dean doesn’t actually crawl across a stray feather. 

              The angel was was right, however; the prep goes relatively quick and absolutely painless, Cas taking the initiative and whipping up a bottle of dream lube (patent pending), which Dean thanks him with a kiss before slathering up his fingers, inserting first one and then another into Castiel’s pink little hole.

              Castiel emits a soft moan at the initial breach, but stays quiet the rest of the time as Dean opens him up with twisting fingers, watching Dean with shuddered eyes. The angel is virgin-tight, his warm, silky channel clenching around Dean’s fingers in a snug grip that gives a nice preview of the main event, and all Dean can think of is how he gets to be the one to give Castiel. Him, and no one else. Crooks his fingers just the right way, and, ah, _there it is._ Castiel’s hips buck upwards, his feathers ruffling to push a breeze against Dean’s face, and – “ _Dean_. Dean, now, start now. Dean, do it.”

             “Are you sure, Cas?” As inexperienced as he is in the actual act of gay sex, Dean knows enough of the logistics, how he should spend more time getting Castiel stretched, add more fingers, his _tongue,_ maybe wring another orgasm out of the angel. But Castiel has a look in his eyes that promises murder if Dean doesn’t give him what he wants, and Dean’s tired of arguing for once, tired of denying he wants Castiel with his entire being, any bit he can get.  

             Mouth dry, Dean licks his lips, commands ruffly, “Sit up for me, Cas. You’re gonna ride me, it’ll be easy for your first time.”

             His body vibrating like a tuning fork with the fresh batch of nerves, Dean flips onto his back again, his blood-heavy dick slapping him in the stomach. Shadows fall across his face as Castiel moves to hover above him, wings arched in what Dean imagines to be a predatory stance, colorful feathers splayed in a display pleasing to the eye.

             In a throaty whisper, Dean asks archly, “Cas, are you preening for me?”

            “. . . Is it working?”

            Dean huffs in amusement at the angel's coyness. “Yeah, it is,” he answers sincerely, clamping his hands onto the spurs of Castiel’s hips to pull him into Dean’s lap, the back of the trenchcoat pooling over Dean’s thighs.

            “You ready?” he whispers

            “ _Yes_ ,” Cas groans empathically, his wings shuffling. “Dean, mate with me. Bind your soul to mine.”

            Dean chuckles softly, reaches a hand up to place it over Castiel’s heart. “I always knew you were a romantic at heart,” he teases lightly.

            “Perhaps you taught me,” Castiel murmurs, and if Dean tries hard enough, he can pretend it was _his_ Cas that said that.

            Dean gently coaxes Castiel into lifting his hips, and he takes hold of his engorged cock, spreads Castiel’s hole with his thumb, and slips inside of the angel.

            It goes easier than it probably should, but hey, perks of dream-sex. Dean watches, enraptured at the sight of them connected like this, as first his cockhead, then the entire length of his dick, disappear inside of Castiel. He is powerless to stop the moan the bubbles out of him; the pressure is unimaginable, nothing like the wet slickness of a women’s pussy. It’s still hot, though, and smooth without the barrier of a latex condom. Dean has to stop halfway through to pull himself together, eyes screwed up and breathing harsh, because he’s a second away from blowing his load prematurely and ruining everything.

            A hand finds its way to his cheek, and when Dean opens his eyes, Castiel is staring down at him, lips parted and cheeks pink. “Dean . . . don’t stop." God, his voice is completely wrecked, breaking in places.  _Please_.”

            And Dean is undone. With great care, he eases Castiel down the rest of his way, bottoms out with a great shuddering breath and Castiel’s whine ringing in his ear. He allows them a minute’s pause for them to catch their breath, and for Castiel to be acclimated to the undoubtedly foreign feeling of being stretched open. Dean doesn’t bother wiping at the sweat beading along his forehead.

            “How’s it feel, Cas?” Dean asks, partly out of concern, and partly out of genuine curiosity.

            “Mhm,” the angel grunts out, shifting in Dean’s lap, his thighs squeezing Dean’s hips, “Dean, it feels . . . I feel full. So very . . . _full_. But it’s . . . it’s not enough . . . I need more.”

            “Don’t worry, buddy,” Dean soothes, rubbing his thumb in the valley of Castiel’s hipbone. “I’ll make it better.”

             He’s pictured this exact moment a million different times in a million different ways – Castiel plowing him into the mattress, him bending Castiel over a table to name just two – but this moment right here puts every one of them to shame, untamed and surreal. At Dean’s insistence they start slow, with him gripping Castiel’s hips tightly while he works his dick in and out of Castiel, constantly on alert for any signs of discomfort. They never come. As Castiel begins to loose himself in the ebb and flow of the rutting, he lets go of his inhibitions, pushing back into Dean’s cock so that it goes further in, tags his prostate. His hands wander up and down Dean’s body, traveling up his chest and down his belly, but always returning to brushing reverentially against his face. Dean turns his head to brazenly snatch at Castiel’s thumb when it passes by, bites lightly at the tip before sucking it into his mouth in apology, flicking it with his tongue. Castiel seems to enjoy that little trick greatly, if his increased pace is any indication. 

             Soon the sounds of their movements fill the air, slick-sounding movements, panting that becomes moans and grunts of pleasure, a cacophony of skin slapping on skin,  feathers rustling like living things – the angel’s human-sized wings periodically flap to keep Castiel balanced, their great span touching both sides of the room. Dean can’t keep his eyes off of them for long, his gaze repeatedly drawn back to their glossy shine. His mouth waters with the want that courses through him, the need to bury his fingers in the soft feathers, get his mouth on the ridge of the appendage –

            Castiel leans down until he’s parallel with Dean, plants a hot, open-mouthed kiss on his lips, drags his teeth down his bottom lip. He pulls back to whisper, “ _You breed with the vitality of a rodent_.”

            Dean can only blink. “What?”

            “It sounds dirtier in Enochian,” he mutters, abashed.  

            With all the hormones and endorphins pumping through his veins, it’s a wonder Dean doesn’t laugh like a braying jackass in Castiel’s face. Boy, does Cas’s pillow talk ever need work. He takes pity on the angel, though, rises up those sparse inches between them to lick at the shell of Castiel’s ear, hips still pumping away. “Nah, Cas, like this. Tell me how you’re going to ride me into the bed, take my thick, hard cock into you like you were born for it. Scream my name.”

            Large hands come to frame Dean’s shoulders, pressing him down into the mattress as Castiel fucks himself furiously on Dean’s dick, eyelids fluttering shut with each thrust. “ _Dean,_ ” is all he says, then, with great emotion, " _Fuck_."

             Dean tosses his head back as his balls begins to tighten, doesn’t stop pistoning his hips. Castiel cursing will never fail to turn him on. “Yeah, just like that, Cas. Take it deeper, you can do it. There you go, angel.” The endearment slips out of him before he can stop it, and it never crosses his mind to try and cover it up.

            “Is it good? D-Dean, it is _good_?” Castiel gaps out. He’s completely gorgeous like this, wild and unrestrained, black hair dripping with sweat with blue eyes dilated and locked onto Dean.

            “So good, so good,” he babbles, grits his teeth as he fights the oncoming tide. He’s gonna make Cas come first like this, tear him down into a million little pieces and rebuild him.

            He slips a hand between their sweaty bodies to take Castiel’s dick in hand, jacks him in time with his thrusts. Castiel burrows his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, his hair sticking to Dean’s skin, muttering a torrent of broken words and harsh, monosyllabic sounds that as first sounds like incoherent gobbledygook, but then Dean realizes is Enochian. He switches back to English just long enough to demand, “T-touch my wings, Dean.”

            Dean doesn’t need to be asked twice. Moaning in gratitude, Dean takes the hand not currently wrapped around Cas’s cock and buries it in the feathers at the base of Castiel’s wings, groans at the sticky wetness he finds there.

            Castiel comes with a single word on his lips.

            “ _Dean_!”

            Dean has just enough time to register the burst of white-blue grace exploding in Castiel’s eyes and the outward flare of his wings before he feels the warmth of Castiel’s palm on his shoulder, molding perfectly to the handprint. Incredible heat, white-hot like liquid gold, pours through the connection, zips through Dean’s central nervous system to touch down in his groin, shoot up his dick, and that’s it. So long, folks. He’s spurting into Castiel’s body with an almighty groan, dick twitching with every fresh load, and Dean can only wrap himself around Castiel and hang on for dear life until it passes.         

            When Dean finally comes back to himself – is it possible to pass out in a dream, because he certainly might have – Dean registers the heavy weight of Castiel’s body slumped over his, the stickiness cooling on his belly, the darkness as Castiel’s wings curl around them like a private curtain. His teeth are sensitive, he notices, as though he bit down on a live wire.

            Dean lets his head fall back against the pillow, his eyes slipping shut. “Hallelujah!” he proclaims heavily. At least that’s what he tries to say, it comes out more as a garbled, “Hey-lu-la!”

            Castiel hums in agreement. “Yes, that was . . . that was most . . . most . . .” He lets loose a huff of frustration that Dean feels against his neck. “I think my actions speak for themselves.” Dragging his feathers against Dean’s side in a gentle caress, Castiel remains otherwise motionless on top of Dean, but Dean doesn’t mind the deadweight, in fact welcomes it.

            He’s going to lose it soon anyways.

            “I love you.”

            He can feel Castiel stiffen in his arms, the questioning gaze Castiel turns on him, but he can’t meet the angel’s eyes head-on. “Dean?”

            “I love you,” he repeats, voice breaking horribly, and he hates himself for it, but he can’t stop, can only burrow his head under Castiel’s chin, releases the confession into the stubbled skin. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

            Even before the angel speaks, Dean can hear the hesitance, the unwillingness to lie. “Dean, I –”

            “Please. _Please_ ,” he practically begs, holds himself tighter to Cas until he’s sure he would be hurting him if he were human. “Don’t say anything. Let me have this."

            Blessedly, Castiel takes the not-so-subtle hint and remains silent, contenting himself with continuing to run the tips of his wings up and down Dean's sides. As for Dean himself, he burrows into the space of Castiel's chin, stubbled skin brushing as his skin, while he waits for his breathing to calm and the treacherous wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes to recede. The minutes pass, and Dean almost fools himself into believing that it didn't work, that Castiel won't leave him again . . . until the light starts to build, a burnish gold that seems to emanate from Castiel's very cells, diffusing past Dean's eyelids so that he can't pretend everything is fine.

             Dean exhales sharply once, pulls back so he can see Castiel, even though he has to squint. He takes the angel's face in his hands, presses their brows together. "Listen to me, Cas. You're going to be okay, you here? Whenever you get knocked down, you're gonna bounce right back up again and knock 'em right back. No matter what, you'll never be alone. You'll have Sam and me. You'll - you'll have me, okay, Cas? You'll have me."

             Distantly, Dean is aware that a groaning rumbling has started, like a small-scale earthquake has erupted in the motel room, except instead of sending all the furniture crashing over, everything stays stationary as the world goes in and out of focus, the colors of the dream losing their saturation. 

           A hand on his face brings his attention back to Castiel, even though it hurts his eyes to look at the angel.  _To hell with my eyes,_ Dean thinks. He'll take the burn just for one more second.

            "Dean . . . Thank you."

            A simple expression of gratitude shouldn't overwhelm Dean, but it does, and before he can ruin everything by opening his big mouth, he swoops in and latches his mouth to Angel Castiel's, holds on to his dream for as long as he can.

            The rumbling is growing louder, vibrating up Dean’s soles into his ribcage, rattling his teeth. Castiel’s light has reaching its zenith, eclipsing no only Castiel but the entire dream-world completely. Blinded, Dean turns away, throwing a hand to shield his tearing-up eyes. He wants to scream. A ringing that, as it climbs in pitch, slowly smoothes out to form . . . his name?

             “Dean? Uh, Dean? . . . Dude, wake up already!”

            It’s a few hazy seconds before Dean realizes that someone is poking him determinedly in the cheek with their bony finger. Opening his eyes reveals Sam, his brother staring at him with equal parts annoyance and embarrassment. “Finally.”

            “Dude, wuz your damage?” Dean snaps groggily, blindly flapping a hand to bat Sam’s giant paw away. If he’s ever had a reason to be a little testy with Sam for being woken up, it’s now. At least he had the decency to hold off until Dean and Castiel got round to the good stuff.   

             When Dean can finally to focus his eyes long enough to peer around blearily, aware that his hair is sticking all up on the one side, he realizes he’s still on the couch in the library, sunk low into the lumpy cushions. And everyone is starting at him – or worse, very obviously looking anywhere but his direction. Cas’s eyes are the size of the Impala’s hubcaps on his face.

            Sure his confusion is clear on his face, he turns back to Sam for answers. Incredulously, the bastard only smirks down at him.

            “Did you, uh, have sweet dreams, Dean?”

             Behind him, Charlie erupts into a fit of snickers behind her fist and Misha obnoxiously fake-coughs, “ _Awkward.”_

            Dean scrubs at the sleep-sticky eyes with the heels of his hands, not in the mood for guessing games. He’s uncomfortably aware of the soreness his throat. “What the hell are you –?”

             He feels the warm stickiness in his boxers when he shifts, leaking through the cotton to clump the hairs on his thighs. A not-surreptitious-enough glance at his crotch reveals a darkening wet patch. _Oh._

             “Dammit,” Dean scowls angrily at his crotch, not looking forward to the uncomfortable walk from here to the laundry room. “This is seriously getting out of hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I think about it the more I like the idea of posting shorter chapters, reducing them two only a scene or two. Will this reduce time between postings? We'll see!
> 
> Notes: I hope no one was too disappointed by it being top!Dean/Bottom!Cas, but I’m shamelessly trying to pander to as large an audience as possible :p. Also this way, I can have top!Cas/bottom!Dean (my favorite pairing) later on in, if ya know what I mean.
> 
> Comments are always welcome.
> 
> Come say hi at my tumbr: I-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs


	10. Up the Long Ladder: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Of course, I didn’t approve at the time, but, alas, what can you do? Did you know, Dean, it was Adam and Eve’s newly discovered shame that drove you to decorating yourselves with the pelts of God’s other creatures, but before that, they were gloriously shameless . . . Isn’t it crazy the paths of life choice takes us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you can see, this chapter is nearly half the length of the usual chapters. But we didn't have to wait for an entire month this time!!! Let me know if you prefer it this way, or if you want me to switch back to longer chapters.  
> Vague-ish spoilers for season ten, I guess.

            The following morning finds Dean jerking awake under the covers of his bed, awoken abruptly from dreams of dark feathers and gripping heat, hazy and sometimes confusing in its disjointedness, nothing like the _other_ one; the strangest parts where when inky-black goo dripped from the feathers, or Dean suddenly tasted alcohol on his tongue. When he calms down enough to still his thrashing, Dean finds he has little memory of having dumped his body here, nor the undoubtedly shamefaced trip to his room, although he counts his lucky stars he must have at least taken the time to slip on clean boxers. Blinking blearily in the darkness, he groans, muscles aching from a fitful night’s sleep. Judging by the clock on his phone, he’s also awake way too damn early to be deemed a person of sound mind.

            Scowling, Dean flips the bird at his phone and tosses it clumsily back onto the small table. Seeking a return to oblivion, he burrows further under the inviting covers with a sigh and shoves his head into his single pillow, shoving a hand beneath him to scratch languidly at his balls as he settles in to scrape together a few more winks.

            Of course, it doesn’t come easily - hell, it doesn't come at all. Frustrated, Dean tries to trick, bait, cajole, and outright beg his mind back into blissful unconsciousness, but with his eyes shut tight, all he’s left with is, _I love you, I love you, I love you_ still ringing in his ears on an endless loop like a skipping record, plaguing his thoughts, with wide, grace-white eyes seared into his retinas like an afterimage. The reckless impulses of yesterday always deteriorate into the guilt of the dreaded morning-after. It never _fucking_ fails.

            Dean sighs heavily, opening his eyes by a hair to stare blankly across the room. He wants nothing more than to completely strike the last two days from his memory. He scratches at his shoulder absently, and it isn’t until the skin starts to smart with the bite of his nails that Dean realizes what he'd been subconsciously searching in vain for. A peek through sleep-crusted eyelids at his marked forearm only confirms that everything is as it was before he got sucked into Castiel’s dream.

            He sighs again, more despondently this time, ready to tell consciousness it can go screw itself six ways to Sunday. Breathing deeply, Dean rolls onto his front as he burrows further into his sheets, detaches himself so his thoughts float away . . .

            The shifting weight at the foot of his bed is the only warning Dean gets before a puff of warm breath is fanning across his face, and Dean finally starts to wonder if maybe he didn't just wake up on his own.

            He snaps his eyes open, and in the limited light the pair of wide eyes staring back at him are slate-gray.

             “. . . Are you fully conscious yet, Dean?”

            “Jesus H _Christ_ -!” Pulling his sheet to cover his bare chest, Dean scrambles backwards, clonking his head soundly off the headboard. Stars dance in front of his eyes as he groans and rubs at the back of his head, Castiel watching anxiously the entire time. “Cas! The hell is this, man? What, you forgot how to knock? And . . . _where the hell are your clothes_?”

            Castiel looks down at himself blankly, as if only now noticing he’s presented himself to Dean sans clothing. Looking back up at Dean, Cas shrugs and points, out matter-of-factly, “I’m nearly as nude as you are.” Before Dean can respond with an appropriately cutting response, Cas continues on, unprompted and rambling. “Humans really are peculiar animals for inventing their own fur. I remember the days when you would spends weeks tracking a single mammoth just for food in some rather itchy-looking tunics. Of course, I didn’t approve at the time, but, alas, what can you do? Did you know, Dean, it was Adam and Eve’s newly discovered shame that drove you to decorating yourselves with the pelts of God’s other creatures, but before that, they were _gloriously_ shameless . . . Isn’t it _crazy_ the paths of life choice takes us?” His smiles vaguely at Dean, but the angel’s gaze seems to go right through him. The lights are on but no one’s home.

            That’s when it clicks, and Dean groans inwardly, eyes briefly slipping closed. Not Cas, then. Not the sane one, anyways.

            Perhaps that explains the lack of arousal roiling in his gut, Dean thinks abstractedly when his gaze flickers out of habit to the vee of Castiel's legs where his cock lies, soft and nestled in its bed of dark-haired curls. It’s the same body Dean has fucked in some fashion three times over the last two days, but when coupled with that child-like smile and vapid expression, well, Dean couldn’t be less turned on if a bucket of ice-water was dumped on him.

            That could be a problem in the future, he realizes with cold dread.

            "Ugh. Go the fuck back to sleep, Cas, or-or whatever it is you do.” Dean slumps backwards, eyelids already drooping. “We’ll talk at breakfast. _With clothes,”_ he adds pointedly, opening one eye to glare threateningly.

            “Oh, well, I don’t consume plant or animal matter, either – wait no, no! Dean, you can’t!” Cas blurts out as he launches himself back into Dean’s space, hovering over him on his hands and knees until he’s nose-to-nose with Dean, distracted expression burning out in a blaze of panic. “You must stop him!”

            “What?” Pushing Castiel back gently but insistently, Dean sits up a little straighter, alert. He nearly demands, _Why didn’t you say anything before,_ but refrains because it’s a futile question. He’s lucky enough that Crazy Cas is actually semi-lucid at the moment. “Stop who, Cas?”

            Abruptly, the angel turns cagey, reeling back to sit on his knees and twist his fingers in his lap. “I . . . Y-y-you have to understand, D-dean,” Castiel stammers out haltingly, gaze darting away and back to Dean as though expecting to be hit if he holds eye contact for too long or too little, shoulders hunched like he’s expecting the need to ward off a blow. “You _specifically_ said we all had to stay at the bunker until you and Sam found a cure, but I didn’t want to intervene, I only want to watch the bees –”

            "Hey, hey, hey.” Dean snaps his fingers to get Cas’s attention, perhaps too harshly but dammit, someone could be hurt. “Stay here with me, buddy. Don’t go wandering. Tell me _who_.”

            Castiel finally focuses on him, eyes stark and very, very blue. “The one who came before me." At Dean's nonplussed look, Cas mumbles out, "Emmanuel,” then visibly flinches. Dean can see where Castiel absently scores faint red lines down his arm with his fingernails, and wonders if Crazy Cas somehow feels like he’s betraying Emmanuel for ratting him out like this.

            Exhaustion evaporating in a dizzying rush, Dean leaps into action, frantically untangles his limbs from the twisted sheets, bounds out of bed and nearly goes for his crumpled-up pants before he remembers what has been dubbed as the ‘couch incident.’ Instead he hurries to his dresser, grabs a new pair of jeans and long sleeved Henley, pulls them on with fumbling fingers. “Did Manny tell you where he was headed?”

          Castiel blinks from where he remains perched on the bed, expression befuddled in way that makes Dean's chest tighten with panic. “Oh no, of course not. It wasn’t Emmanuel who spoke to me. It was the  Prophet.”

          “The . . . Prophet?” Dean asks slowly after the pregnant pause, wondering if Castiel’s remaining shreds of sanity have finally unhinged.

          The angel nods earnestly like Dean's relatively calm question is praise. “Yes. The high-strung one. Kevin Tran.”

           It’s like being socked in the stomach and having the rug pulled out from under him all at once, hitting Dean with such force that he has to lean one hand against the side of the dresser, swallow down the golfball-sized lump in his throat before he can catch his breath. “Kev’s dead, Cas,” he eventually manages to choke out. “I . . . I already told you. One of your asshole brothers killed him, fucker burned his eyes out . . . It was my fault, though,” he admits unwillingly, the guilt an ever-present gnawing inside of him, bottomless and insatiable.

          “Yes, I remember,” Castiel replies, possibly a tad brusque, which is rich coming from him. “He’s still very irate about that, and felt I was making a mess of his room, though I only attempted to put everything back into their correct order.” The angels’ brows pulls together, and his gaze lists off into the middle distance. “Strangely enough, the nose-booping failed to placate him. . . .”

           Dean just shakes his head. Castiel is just misinformed, confused, _insane_. . .

           Standing there, rooted to the spot and spasmodically clenching his fists, Dean makes a desperate bid at levity to alleviate the awkwardness. “Cas, you, uh . . . heh, you know enough not to listen to the voices in your head when they tell you to start lighting things on fire, right?” He chuckles weakly at his shitty joke.

           “There are no voices in my head, Dean,” Castiel answers him, tone losing its foothold on is childlike perkiness and skimming the surface of morose. “At least . . . not anymore. Not since I turned my ears away from angel radio . . .” His head falls forward to stare at his lap. “One such as myself has no right to hear the Choir.”

 _Smooth move, Winchester,_ Dean thinks bitterly.  _  
_

            Still tasting his foot in the back of his mouth, Dean pads his way to the door just as Castiel seems to shake himself out of it. “Please don’t be mad at Emmanuel, Dean.” His quiet voice seems to reach out and brush against Dean in the darkness. “He . . . he doesn’t understand.”

            Looking over his shoulder, Dean sees Castiel pale and hunched over, and his heart twists uncomfortably. “Don’t worry, Cas, ‘m not angry. I’m just gonna go talk some sense into him. Promise.”

            He’s not sure Castiel heard all that, because he responds with a somber, “I think perhaps he’s the most innocent of all of us. It weighs heavily on his heart.”

 _Innocence has nothing to do with this,_ Dean thinks bleakly. _He still has a hand to play._

Biting his lip, Dean crosses back to his bed, waiting until Castiel’s gaze flits upwards to meet his. Slowly, so that skittish angel has time to pull back if he wants, Dean reaches out to brush the back of his knuckles against the sharp line of Castiel’s jaw. It’s not meant to be a sexual touch – far from it – but it is comforting, intimate, comes shockingly easy to him. Surprises the hell outta Cas too, if his wide-eyed look is anything to go by.

            “How about you go back to bed, Cas, hmm? Watch your cartoons, come to breakfast in a few hours. We’ll see ya then.”

             The change is instantaneous. All it takes is the mention of _cartoons,_ and Crazy Cas visibly perks right the hell up, shoulders unslumping by a smidge. He barely manages a rushed-out, “The one about the contentious relationship between the mouse and the cat might be on! That's George's favorite,” before he’s flooshing away in a flurry of wind, leaving Dean alone.

 _Goddammit, Manny,_ Dean thinks wearily, even as an inexplicable sadness tugs at him. Barefooted, Dean slips out of the room, hesitates for a moment before takeoing off in the direction of the entrance. He's the only one with the keys to the garage anyway. He pads on silent feet down the corridors of the bunkers, the early-morning quiet eerie after the turmoil of the last two days. With no windows to let moonlight shine through, and the lights off to save precious power, the walk through the bunker is a dark, pitch-black one, aided more by sense and memory than actual sight. 

              By the time Dean makes it to the map room, darting his way to the wrought-iron staircase, a dull clanking, like water banging around through old pipes, is echoing around the room, vibrating up the soles of Dean’s feet.

_What the hell. . .?_

              Slowly now, Dean stealthily makes his way up the staircase, cringing at each unsurpressed creak, not quite sure to expect when he reaches the top.

             Although Dean can only see back of his dark-haired head, he has no trouble recognizing the squeaky-clean, iron-pressed presence of Emmanuel, still wearing those fugly slacks and navy sweater-jacket even though it’s the ass-crack of way-too-friggin'-early. _Dressed like he’s ready to bolt,_ Dean thinks grimly, although luckily, it doesn’t look like the mild-mannered faith healer will be leaving anytime soon by the way things appear to be going.

            As promised, Castiel’s boundary spell seems to be doing the trick. Every (admittedly less than impressive) crash of Emmanuel's shoulder doesn't even reach the door itself, the blows bouncing off what appears to be a forcefield of sorts, a deep reverberating bellowing out as the field shudders. The arcane-looking sigils inscribed around the frame of the door glow with each hit, a deep fiery orange that highlights Emmanuel’s body in a halo, reflects off his frenzied eyes, the sweat beading off his brow. Dean can't help but be reminded of that one time he when he was twelve and he went hunting with Bobby, how they had come across a coyote stuck in some other hunter's trap, literally trying to chew its leg off in a desperate bid for freedom. 

             Throwing caution to the wind, Dean calls out, pitched low enough so he doesn’t wake up the entire bunker, “ _Emmanuel_!”

             Even in the patchy light Dean can see Emmanuel damn-near jump out of his skin, whipping around to face Dean, eyes wide and not a little terrified. “Dean, I . . . I was just trying to go for a morning jog. For some, um, fresh air.”

             “Uh-huh,” Dean answers with blatant skepticism, cocking an eyebrow. “How’s that going for ya?”

              In all honesty, Dean half-expects Emmanuel to meekly scamper off after being caught red-handed like this, but the man manages to surprise Dean, shifts his stance into something more solid and defiantly holds his ground, though Dean can see where his hands shake minutely. They just stand there, staring at each other in some sort of bizarre Mexican standoff, waiting for the other man to make the first move.

             Of course, that would have to be Dean. “What are you doing out here, Manny?” he sighs exasperatedly, hands on his hips. “No bullshit.”

             Incredibly, Emmanuel juts his chin an inch higher, lips trembling, swallows once as though to steel himself. Maybe there's more of Castiel in him than Dean originally thought, the dormant part of the angel waking up to take a peak. “I thought that would have been fairly obvious, Dean.”

              “Hey. Don’t get smart,” Dean warns tiredly, shaking his head. Exhaustion weights heavily on him, make his eyelids droop, his shoulder slump. All he wants to do is climb back into bed before his sheets can cool. . . .“You can ram into that barrier to your heart’s content, all you’re gonna get for your trouble is a broken shoulder. None of you are getting past that spell.” He points at the still-glowing sigils, his friend's handiwork. “Cas made sure of it.”

              That seems to bring Emmanuel up short, but only for a second, and then he’s taking a determined step forward. “Then you’ll just have to assist me,” he says decisively, like it's a done deal. “Like you did with Jimmy.”

              At the moment, standing there at six in the goddamn morning in the chilly air and being fucking _judged_ by some asshole in a cardigan, Dean so very  _dearly_ wants to scream that he didn’t take Jimmy fucking anywhere - except maybe around the moon – that if Emmanuel wants to return to Colorado and his fucking fake-wife so badly all he needs to do it bend over, grab his ankles, and think of England. Oh, Dean’ll bring him home, alright . . .

              His hand comes flying to his mouth as the prickly surge of molten anger recedes as quickly as it had surged, leaving Dean lightheaded and shivery and more than a little scared of his own self, fighting back the rise of bile in his throat. He rubs furtively at his itching right forearm to push the inexplicable rage back down again, moves on before Emmanuel can notice his temporary lapse in sanity.

             “Hey, I get it, man,” Dean says quietly, trying for placating, although that’s always been more of Sam’s area of expertise. “I really do. All you’re feeling is a bit of cabin fever. Close quarters and all. I mean, it’s eating away at all of us, after being cooped up here day in and day out –”

            “Not _we_ , Dean,” Emmanuel corrects sharply. “ _Us_. You, however, are free to come and go as you please – which you seem to do very often, whether to make a run for cheap fast food, or sate your vices at some run-down bar, or,” and here something hardens in Emmanuel’s gaze, “drive across state lines to bring another one of my  . . . my cousins home to his family.”

             Hackles raised, Dean just barely checks the urge to bare his teeth, bristling from the wholly unfair accusation lying beneath Emmanuel’s pointed words. Looks like Dean’s finally found the mild-mannered healer’s boiling point. “Where the _hell_ do you think you get off blaming me for –?”

              But he’s cut off. “My family might not be as large as Jimmy’s, Dean, but I'm all my wife has . . . I have just as much a right as Mr. Novak to return home, to Daphne and my life. I would greatly appreciate your assistance, but if you won’t help me . . .” Emmanuel seems to falter for a moment, before marshaling himself. “Then I’ll do this on my own.”

           Running a rough hand through his hair, Dean snaps, “Dude, I said I would help you get back!” and for all that counts, it’s the truth, just . . . in a rather round-about way, a way that seems less and less likely of being a sure thing every second they spend butting heads. “I just need a little bit more time –”

            But Emmanuel only shakes his head, mouth pulled in a tense, flat line. “No, Dean, I’m afraid _soon_ isn’t good enough, and I . . . I refuse to wait any longer. Not when you’re so very keen on avoiding me.”             

            “Oh, so it’s called avoiding you now, is it?” Dean scoffs, his anger stoking into a blazing furnace “Funny, I thought it was called giving you a place to crash instead of kicking your ass to the curb. Let the demons pick their teeth will you.”

            “Demons?” Emmanuel questions sharply, paling, and Dean realizes his mistake too late. “You mean . . . literal demons, don’t you?” His voice is so quiet that Dean wouldn’t have been able to hear him if it wasn’t just the two of them alone here.

             Biting his lip in contrition, Dean makes to hastily cover his tracks, but only gets as far as, “ _No_. No, not _demons_ -demons. Just, um, you know, everyone has their personal de–” before Emmanuel cuts him off, face pained and ashen. “Dean, _stop_. Just . . . please stop _lying_ to me. Don’t do me the discourtesy of making me out for some sort of fool. I’m misinformed perhaps, maybe ignorant – but not stupid.”

            The instinct to deny that he’s done any such thing battles it way to the tip of Dean’s tongue, but staring there at Emmanuel, at his beaten posture and pleading eyes, Dean finds he can’t do it.

            So he goes with the truth – or at least, the important parts. “Emmanuel, what if . . . What if I told you we've met before all this craziness? Well, I mean, _I_ met you before - what is it? - two years ago. But you'll - you'll met meet me again, in your future? I mean, this –” He waves his hand up and down Emmanuel’s primly dressed body – “version of you. Amnesia and pretty wife and a member’s card at the Gap.”

            Emmanuel blinks at the confounding statement. “I . . . I would say that sounds absolutely insane,” he says with his (and Cas’s) usual bluntness, and Dean’s heart starts to sink until: “But then again, I never would’ve believed I would meet one of the Lord’s angels in the flesh, nor that he would look like me . . .” Manny's eyes glaze over, and he trails off into, “That so many men I’ve never met before could look exactly like me, and yet be so vastly different  . . .” Chest expanding with a great intake of air, Emmanuel looks back up at Dean, and his gaze has composed itself into something like resignation. Acceptance. “So I suppose now is as good a time as any to acknowledge that anything is possible through God’s will. Even, erhm, demons.”

           “Oh, believe me, they're real, alright. Dumb sonsofbitches, but twice as vicious,” Dean states emphatically, moving closer to Emmanuel to meet his bemused gaze. “And I did you a solid by saving you from one. Your wife, too. Right then and there, you trusted me enough to leave with me to help my brother when he was in a real bad way." Dean smiles at the memory. "You're a good man like that . . . Now, Manny, I don’t exactly have a demon on hand to save your damsel-ass from, but I'mm gonna need you to extend me that same amount of trust as before because I’m only here who's got your back.”

            Emmanuel, however, only cants his head to the side in that familiar gesture, eyes softening into a not-quite squint. “Dean, whoever you lost, please know I am sorry.”

            Dean can feel the blood drain from his face, stealing the warmth with it. “What? How did you -What the hell does that have to do with anything –?”

            “I only mean to say that from what I've seen you seem like the sort of man who shoulders everyone’s problems as your own," Emmanuel presses on, "a man who will go any lengths to protect those you deem your own. When they fail – as all we humans are likely to do at one point or another – you blame yourself. When you fail, it hurts you twice as much, no matter how far circumstances were out of your control.”

             _You're not a machine, Dean,_ Emmanuel had said to Dean during that quiet drive in the midnight rain all those years ago.  _You're human._

            Whatever jumble of tumultuous emotions is playing across Dean’s face must be warning enough for Emmanuel to shut his trap, wisely stepping out of arm's reach and averting his gaze. “I – forgive me. I was being overly presumptuous.” Emmanuel sighs and shakes his head wearily. "I don't know what came over me. . . ."

            Shivering like someone’s walked over his grave, Dean has to slant his eyes away, clenching his jaw. Shit, but he’d forgotten just how damn perceptive Emmanuel was, behaving more like the friend Dean had known for years than the stranger he whose life Dean had stumbled upon. “Damn, Miss Cleo. You do palm readings, too?” It comes out shaky, but hey, it’s better than letting his short temper whip out like a lash to strike Emmanuel.

            The man in question shakes his head, expression contrite. “I've angered you. Believe me when I say I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds, only to help you understand that contrary to what you might think, it is not your duty nor your burden to protect me.”

            Making a noise of frustration, Dean snaps, “What the hell do you think is going to happen, Emmanuel? That you're just gonna waltz back into your old life all happy-slappy? You can't, Emmanuel! That's what I've been trying to tell you! Your life is gone!”

            ". . . What do you mean?" Emmanuel replies quietly, face ashen.

            “Peaked at a calender lately?” Dean says grimly. "It's 2014, Manny. Your wife hasn’t seen you in years.”

             Sucking in a sharp breath of surprise, Emmanuel murmurs faintly, “Oh, gracious. . . .” which might be the lamest curse Dean’s ever heard, but it does little to conceal the way Manny’s features seem to twitch in stunned disbelief. Handing over bad news has always been one of his lesser skills, and watching Emmanuel scramble to make sense of his thrown-off-course world, Dean reflects this was one of his poorer attempts. “My wife, my work . . . What happened to all those people who needed me after I disappeared? They counted on me and I abandoned them.”

             The shard of icy guilt that Dean had thought had long since dissipated stabs at Dean’s heart to remind him of his presence. It’s not all that different from the guilt Dean felt when he had watched Castiel get out of the Impala and walk away from Dean for the millionth time, this time walking towards an actual future away from angels and demons and hunting and Dean’s crap, a future with a steady, _normal_ job, a possibility of someone to share his life with that wasn’t made of more alcohol and daddy issues than blood. Not for the first time, Dean wonders if he had been wrong to take Emmanuel from his new home in Colorado like he was a naughty pet that had ran off, never mind that he was responsible for breaking Sam’s wall in the first place. At the time, Dean had been so overjoyed to have his friend _literally_ brought back from the dead, it had been next to nothing to convince himself that he was doing the right thing. But then he’d left Castiel broken in that hospital, and slowly doubt had taken root. Maybe he'd been too hasty, maybe Dean could have eventually found a solution to his brother’s madness, left Emmanuel to live a life free of Dean’s bullshit. . . .

             Dean can feel the instinctive urge to reach out to take Emmanuel’s shoulder in him, but recoils at the impulse, feels that he can only make things worse at this point. Emmanuel doesn’t _want_ Dean. So instead Dean watches impotently as Emmanuel’s throat bobs while he works through his confusion. “It won’t matter when we get you back home,” is the only reply he can come up with, lame as it is, even though he knows he’ll only be stealing Emmanuel away shortly after.

            No, not stealing. _Killing_ Emmanuel. Because Castiel was only returned to him when Emmanuel faded away . . .

            The worst part is knowing that he would do again, is going to do it again, because Dean will always choose Cas over the rest of them.

             “You don’t understand. I . . . I do not belong here, Dean. This is not my world, and it _terrifies_ me.” Manny's voice breaks a little, the white of his eyes showing. “I belong out there, with my work and my wife.” Dean is starting to think he gets what Crazy Cas meant about Emmanuel being the most innocent of them all. Then, quietly enough that Dean is forced to step closer to hear: “It’s the only thing that makes the feeling go away."

              “Feelings?” Dean perks up, thinking, _this is new_. Manny had made no mention of _feelings_ troubling him. Dean can remember all too well how content Emmanuel had been with his apple-pie life.

             “Longing,” Manny clarifies after a moment’s hesitation, gaze flickering to Dean once before drifting away. “Have you ever felt a tugging in your soul? Not a calling, exactly. Like a cry out for help in the dark?”

            “Well, I reckon I know a little something about longing, Manny,” Dean says with a bitter laugh. “And doesn’t sound like that’s your problem.”

            Emmanuel shakes his head slowly, and his voice is wistful as he replies, “I never said it was _my_ longing, although I’ve have spent many months wishing to find them, the one it belongs to. They’re hurting, terribly, and I can’t shake the feeling that I could bring them comfort, if only I could find him.”

            “Him?” Dean asks softly, and his heart, ticking steadily mere moments before, now feels like its tripping over itself trying to break through his chest. “What makes you so sure . . .?”

            “A guess, a gut feeling.” Manny shrugs before smiling ruefully up at Dean. “I suppose it seems strange to you, that I could have such an affinity.”

            “Lucky for you, I’m a blackbelt in strange,” Dean shoots back automatically, but it sounds oddly distant, even to his own ears. _Manny can’t possibly be talking about . . ._   

            Thankfully, Emmanuel seems just as distracted, raising a hand to his chest and rubbing absently as though seeking to rid himself of something lodged behind his sternum. “Ever since I first awoke in that river, alone and confused and, um, indecent, I have felt it. My constant companion. I’d thought . . . originally I had thought it was _Daphne_ calling out to me, leading me to her, since she was the first person I met in this newborn life of mine, the first friend I ever made. She’d even suggested that I take it as a sign from that God had led me to her, as she was lonely and without a partner in her life . . . .” He sighs despondently. “But as time passed the sensation only worsened, a deep ache of loneliness and misery that sometimes flared so strong it would awaken me up in the middle of the night, crying out to me from the dark . . .” Emmanuel seems to get lost in his thoughts, but Dean has no desire to prompt him further. Eventually, he continues, a little steadier. “When I found my mission in life, I was also fortunate to discover a certain amount of peace in it. Using my . . .  gifts, I found I’ve been able to help people to a certain degree. It’s only then that I’m able to ease the ache, if only momentarily, hoping one day the one who was in pain would stumble upon me, guided by God’s hand.”

             By now, Dean’s biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes the copper of blood. _It’s impossible_ , he says to himself. _I never prayed to Cas that year, not once. . . ._

            “You, uh . . . you never made mention of this the first time around,” he says, then cringes when he realizes how much of an accusation that sounds like.

            “From the sound of things, maybe there was no pertinent time to bring in up in conversation.” Emmanuel’s lips pull up in a pale imitation of a conspiratorial smirk. “Not when demons run loose on the earth.”

            “Demons that would string you and your pretty little wife up if they saw you,” Dean reminds him, not unkindly, but Emmanuel needs to _get it_. “I think you can stomach a little heartburn until we get you squared away.”

            Emmanuel sighs, seems to pull in himself, and Dean knows he’s finally reached resignation, albeit reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

            “Hey.” Dean taps lightly at the crook of Emmanuel’s elbow. “It’s gotten pretty late - How about we go grab something to eat? Er, wait – you don’t eat, do you?”

            But Emmanuel just shakes his head, not looking at Dean. “Yes, but I  . . . I would actually be grateful for a hot cup of tea.”

            Dean can’t help but wrinkle his nose. “I’m sure Sam has something. Ginger root with something-something. Maybe honey jasmine frou-fou crap, I don’t know.”

            Shooting a side-eyed glance at him, Emmanuel lets slip a wry smile. “Sounds very appetizing.”

            Their gazes meet for a moment, and Dean can read the gratitude for the topic change in Emmanuel’s eyes, the weariness to match his own. It’s an uneasy truce between them, and Dean doesn’t know for how long it’ll hold.

            Dean gestures for Emmanuel to follow him, and they head back down the staircase, but not before Dean catches Manny casting one last wistful glance back the door and its protective necklace of glowing sigils.

 

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, though, you guys let me know if you think this chapter is too short to be satisfying ...  
> Edit: whoops, forgot to add this last night . . . Just so no one draw any wrong conclusions, Kevin's ghost won't be making an appearance in this fic, since this takes place before 9x14. Just thought this would make a nice little mention for Kevin to be pissed Crazy Cas has taken up residence in his room....
> 
> Computer's working, everything is okay! Gonna try and have the next update by next weekend....


	11. Up the Long Ladder: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't remember breakfast ever being so friggin' complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crawls over the wreckage of my dead hard drive to bring you this chapter.

             Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the remaining tendrils of post-sex buzz still lingering in his veins, but Dean had harbored the naïve hope that perhaps this early into the morning the kitchen would be empty of the bunker’s boisterous pack of squatters, free for him and Emmanuel to have a chance to patch things up over a cup of something hot and bitter in peace – or, most likely, avoid each other’s eyes as they kept their gazes doggedly trained onto the depths of their mugs. Hey, as far as Dean is concerned, awkward silence is better than no silence at all.

            Of course, Dean hadn’t accounted for spastic, LA early birds. Apparently, the rise-with-the-sun lifestyle is all the rage these days in Hollywood – er, Vancouver. Whatever.

            He and Emmanuel have just barely gotten within view of the doorway to the kitchen when the clamor reaches them. Pots and metal pans bang and clash together in chaotic song as someone unseen fusses around with breakfast, beating the food into submission by the sound of it. Dean steps ahead of Emmanuel as they enter the kitchen, his hands at the ready in case anything goes flying at their heads. A healthy dose of apprehension and paranoia never hurt anyone, he figures.

            "What's with all the racket?” Dean hollers as he takes a wary step into the kitchen, Emmanuel hovering behind closely him.

            “Culinary magic!” is the answer he receives, the voice bright and spunky. “Or there _will_ be . . . soon as I . . . Ergh!”

            Two whole days have passed, and Misha is _still_ wearing the same crime-against-fashion blue snowflake jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he scuttles about the tiny kitchen. At this point Dean doesn’t care that it makes the actor’s already ungodly gorgeous eyes pop: right now it’s taking everything in him not to rip the atrocity right off Misha’s back and drag the thing outside to burn. He’ll probably salt it for good measure, an extra precaution to ensure it doesn’t come back from the dead to exact its fuzzy revenge.

           The frilly pink apron Misha’s dug up from God-knows-where certainly isn't doing Misha any favors, ether.

 _“Dobroye utro_ , Not-Jensen! You’re looking particularly lumberjack-esque today,” Misha greets sunnily, smiling at Dean after a rather blatant once-over and then returning his attention to rummaging around in the cupboards for whatever it is he happens to be looking for while Dean scrubs a self-conscious hand over his unshaved face. His bare feet are visible under the cutoffs of his jeans, Dean notices, nice-looking toes wiggling on the cold floor. Oblivious to Dean's perving, Misha pauses to poke his head up once more. “Sweet dreams?” he asks with an innocence belied by the pointed glance to Dean’s crotch.

            Unamused, Dean scowls and gives Misha the middle finger, blushing furiously. _  
_

            Misha’s eyes still twinkle as they skip over to linger longer on Emmanuel, and Dean’s attention is caught on where Misha’s long fingers tap against the wood of the counter in a staccato rhythm as he considers his doppelganger. “Manny, you wanna lend me a hand or two here?” he eventually says, and his pink mouth breaks into a wide gummy smile, warm and sincere if slightly psychotic. It makes his nose crinkle and laugh lines fan around his eyes, Dean observes. “I’m in need of a trusty co-pilot for this expedition.”

             Clearly caught off-guard by the offer, Emmanuel frowns uncertainly, a divot forming in the middle of his brow as he fidgets uneasily by Dean’s shoulder. “Er, are you sure you want – I mean, I don’t think that’s a very sound idea –”

            “Nonsense!” Misha exclaims jovially and flaps a dismissive hand with more pep than any one person has a right to this early in the morning. “You and me, we have a bond now, Manny, formed by surviving the rigorous perils of five-person Twister together. That practically makes us brothers, _twins_ one might say." Dean can't help the eyeroll at that. "Which reminds me," Misha continues, ignoring Dean if he's aware of his silent skepticism, "if we organize the others we should form a union, demand better pay and working hours  . . . Anyhoo, what I’m getting is that you –” he jabs a finger at Emmanuel “–owe me the honor of creating a unique culinary masterpiece.” At Emmanuel’s prolonged hesitance, Misha adds slyly, blue eyes wide and puppyish with his lower lip jutting out in a slight pout, “At the very least I need you to hold the pan for me; I completely blew my wrist out playing badminton.” He even goes so far as to roll his limp wrist around in its socket a few times, hamming it up.

             Surreptitiously, Dean brings a hand to his face to hide his impressed smirk. _Dude knows how to work his audience, I'll give him that._

            Beside Dean, Emmanuel shifts his weight from one foot to the other, all eyes on him. “Well . . . if you insist, then I suppose it would be terrible manners of me to withhold you my assistance . . .” Emmanuel’s gaze flickers to Dean in askance, as though seeking guidance, or approval, and Dean tries to arrange his face into something encouraging. “But it’s pertinent that I warn you I’ve never made so much as a proper meal for myself before, due to a lack of desire as much as incompetence.” A delicate flush warms Emmanuel’s cheeks as he ducks his head self-consciously. “I’ve . . . never had much of an appetite, I’m afraid. Or, if I ever did, I no longer remember.”

            Unfazed, Misha just shrugs nonchalantly, makes a noise of delight when he finally procures a large mixing bowl that is such a cheery shade of red that it can only be Sam’s doing, and a wooden spoon. “Can you make toast?”

             Emmanuel just shakes his head glumly. “Daphne wouldn’t let me near the toaster after I tried the first time. There was a rather unfortunate incident that involved the fire department and the disposal of Daphne's kitchen window curtains.”

            Dean whistles lowly. “Remind me never to let you and Sam go into the restaurant biz. Between the two of you, you’ll burn the place to the ground.”

            Misha, however, remains stoutly unfazed. “Doesn’t matter," he insists, hand-waving away possibly dangerous kitchen accidents. "If you can throw food or food-shaped things into a bowl and work an oven, you can cook."

            Dean seriously doubts the validity of such a statement, and resolves to carefully take note of what Misha cooks with in case anything is offered to him. They don’t need to add a trip to the ER for food poisoning to this already shitty week.

             After Dean bolsters Emmanuel's courage with a slap to the back and the doppelganger makes his way over to a beckoning Misha, fumbling with the wire whisk that is thrust into his unprepared hands and blinking owlishly at it in consternation ("It's a whisk, Manny, not the launch codes for the US nukes," Misha says in crisp reassurance), Dean is left all by his lonesome at the entrance way, an ansty feeling biting its way up his limbs.

            After running nearly a full gamut of emotions these past two days, the one thing Dean has become unaccustomed to is the feeling of being _ignored_.

            “Ya know, I’m pretty handy around the kitchen myself,” Dean informs the television actor with forced casualness as he saunters up to the countertop, where Misha is busy spraying Pam on a frying pan.

            "'M sure you are," Misha murmurs absently, inspecting his work with the pan. "I've seen your handiwork with large knives. Too bad this requires less lethal tools." Misha pauses in consideration. "Although I'm sure you could kill someone with a spatula if you tried."

             Well, yeah, he could, but that's not the point. “Still. Pretty sure I could help whip something up.”

             He reaches for the frying pan –

             “No no,” Misha reprimands, hand whipping out to rap Dean’s knuckles sharply with the handle of the wooden spoon. Dean recoils his hand with a displeased hiss, staring daggers at an unrepentant Misha, who gestures with the offending spoon. “You sit down and behave. We cook.”

               Dean's scowl only grows, and he stubbornly remains rooted to the spot with his arms crossed over his chest to broadcast his intentions. It’s _his_ kitchen, dammit.

              In response to Dean’s stony silence, Misha’s left eyebrow crooks up, and the stare locked on Dean hardens as Misha brandishes the spoon at him. “Obey the Overlord or suffer the consequences.”

               Dean just roll his eyes, and in defiance, makes himself comfy against the counters with obnoxious, over-exaggerated movements. Meanwhile Misha gets back to work, hustling over to Emmanuel to clip out instructions, though Dean doesn’t bother paying attention to what’s being said. Like it's magnetically drawn, his gaze has drifted back to the table that is now covered in Misha’s preparations for breakfast, the table where Dean had found Angel Castiel hunched over last night, where arguing had led to talking had led to kissing . . . The table is still uneven from when Angel Castiel knocked into it after they violently broke apart, and Dean can't find it in himself to nudge it back.

             Shaking himself out of that unexpected spike of melancholy, Dean returns his attention to Misha because he's close by, because looking at him doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would.

             What's more, Dean's bored, cranky, and getting pretty hungry, and there's something about Misha that suggests he can take a dig and dish it right back. In other words, he's a distraction.

             “Hey, hot stuff, ever think about changing clothes and not looking like a Beverley Hills hobo?” Dean drawls out.

             "Hey, douchebag, ever think about lending me some?" Misha quips out without missing a beat or taking his eyes off his cooking.

             Suddenly very interested in the dirt under his fingernails, Dean fights a reluctant smile. If he didn't think the guy was such a loud-mouthed asshole, he could almost see him and Misha becoming buddies.

              They're going to have to become intimately acquainted sometime soon anyway. 

             “In my defense, I hadn't planned on playing host to the Winchester Boarding House for more than a few days,” Dean points out, holding his hands up surrender. But then he pauses for serious consideration. “I mean if you’re real desperate . . . I don't think Cas has enough anything on hand, but I could see if I can dig something up out outta my closet. Might be a bit big in the shoulders. . . ." 

            Misha just sighs with more dramatic flair than Dean thinks the situation calls for, mutters something about Hunter couture not being in season or whatever. Then, without any rhyme or reason, Misha snaps his fingers, as though coming to a decision on an issue Dean hadn’t even been aware he’d been deliberating on. "You know what? You're right absolutely right, Not-Jensen.”

            Dean smirks. “Sure, I am . . . Remind me again what I’m right about?”

             “That I should slip into something a little more comfortable," Misha says, already untying his ridiculous apron. "It's gonna be getting a little stuffy in here." Setting down the partially-filled bowl with care, Misha's hands go to the hem of his jacket. Then, glancing up at Dean with that same damn eyebrow cocked to make sure he has Dean’s full attention – he does – Misha slowly tugs up his jacket, and Dean can’t stop himself – fuzzy blue fabric recedes to reveal a tanned strip of taut stomach, a dark-haired treasure trail that bisects down his taut navel to disappear into his jeans, and finally those goddamn, motherfucking hipbones . . .

              "Are you sure that's sanitary?" Emmanuel speaks up from his place by the stove, sounding more dubious than sarcastic, and Dean blinks, that temporary moment of insanity broken, and he sheepishly collects his jaw where it had landed on the floor and hastily wipes away the drool.

              Misha’s devilishly handsome mug is all self-satisfaction and mirth as he tugs the sweater up past his head and frees it from his body, his hair wild before he pats it back to rights. "There! All done," he chirps. He stands there in a light blue t-shirt with strange black lettering on the front that Dean can’t make heads or tails of. Misha balls up the sweater, and Dean can’t help but stare at Misha’s biceps, 'bout ready to burst from their confinement of the sleeves. Between Emmanuel and Misha, Dean’s got to admit that Castiel looks damn _fine_ in blue, no matter who he happens to be.

            Misha's brief pause of hesitation and flicker of his eyes gives his intentions away, allowing Dean to easily bat away the waded-up sweater thrown his way.

            "Much better," Misha says, throwing his arms over his head, groaning as he stretches. His t-shirt lifts up a little, but Dean is not looking, _he's not_! "How about you get crackin' on that coffee, Not-Jensen?"

            Dean rolls his eyes, both by Misha's complete disregard for his actual name and for being assigned such a trivial task, but he pads over to the coffeemaker all the same, gets the coffee grounds out of the can. “So, what, you’re some kind of actor-by-night and Emeril-by-day?” he asks over his shoulder, bitingly sarcastic. 

            “I prefer to think of myself as more of the Martha Stewart-type,” Misha sniffs primly, retying the apron over his t-shirt. "Unlike _some_ people, I don't feel the need to cover up the 'girly' things I like with nauseating amounts of machismo. I certainly don't get conniptions over drinking through straws."

             The glare Dean directs at Misha goes largely ignored. 

             “What, so does that mean you’ve been to jail, then, Martha?” Dean volleys back, eyes flickering to Misha’s jeans-clad legs. “Gotta fancy rhinestone-studded anklet I should know about?" Is is pine-scented?" Then Dean recalls yesterday in the garage, Misha and Future Cas teaming up to call Dean out on his bullshit, Misha mentioning something about incarceration. "Wait wait wait, I remember now. Didn't you say you did time with the Chinese government?”

            The corner of that pink mouth pulls up in a self-satisfied smirk. “No, that was actually a fib." When he looks up at Dean, his blue eyes shine with sly mischief. "But it sounds like a great story, doesn’t it?"

            Dean huffs a shocked laugh despite himself. “And i'm guessing you've never played badminton before, either, huh?” Dean asks in bemusement, turning half his attention back to the coffeemaker. A few well-timed slaps is all it takes to get the coffeemaker going, the ancient piece of crap sluggishly dripping out a strong-smelling brew, and Dean already feels a little bit more awake because of it. With a little luck, they might get some coffee in their systems before the next Ice Age rolls around.

            “Nope, but I've always wanted to give it a go,” Misha replies, completely unabashed. 

            “Has anything you've said about yourself actually true?” Dean asks skeptically.

             "Of course not. I'm an _actor_. We're inherently compulsive liars by nature," Misha throws out glibly. He stares around the kitchen, muttering, “ _Any cookbooks in this dump_?”

            “Only if you're fixing to cook yourself up a rudimentary tracking spell," Dean supplies unhelpfully. Then, as he watches Misha bustle about the kitchen like he’s being pulled around by an invisible string, something occurs to Dean, and he asks archly, “Aren’t you supposed to, like, know where everything is anyway? What, no bunker-sets with fakie, rubber artifacts in Bizarro World?”

            “Nope,” Misha succinctly replies. “Wherever this is place is, it’s not something that’s been built yet. Filming just wrapped up for season five.” At Dean’s blank silence, Misha clarifies, “Oh, ah, you know - the one where Sam does a triple-lindy into the Cage with Lucifer and Michael while Cas fucks off to Heaven and leaves Dean on Earth.”

            “Oh,” is the only response Dean can come up with, mouth drying up. Not exactly a pleasant breakfast topic. Something about his tone seems be enough to catch Misha’s attention enough for the spastic actor to slow down by a hair, backtracking to peer closer at Dean.

            “Dean," and Dean blinks at the use of his real name, ". . . you don’t –”

            The sudden _woosh_ of a large flame erupting into existence is a welcoming diversion from the abruptly somber moment, as is the urgent call of, “Misha, was this supposed to happen?”

            “Looks like your budding prodigy needs some adult supervision,” Dean suggests hurriedly, turning his attention back to the coffeemaker.

            Misha visibly dithers on the spot, gaze flickering between Dean and an increasingly distraught Emmanuel, his feet already moving him away from Dean. "Raincheck on the flirting, Not-Jensen?" 

            " _What_? No, that wasn't - I wasn't - we weren't - I was just . . . Ummm."

            Misha just winks at him once before hurrying back to Emmanuel, grabbing the kitchen's small fire extinguisher as he goes. “We’re really cooking with gas now!” 

 

 

             Misha and Emmanuel eventually get the little incendiary mishap under control, declaring breakfast 'salvageable.' Whatever that means. Judging by the warning glances Misha keeps firing his way whenever Dean ventures anywhere near the vicinity of the stove, Dean's apparently still barred from any actual cooking, so he contents himself with savoring his coffee, slouching in a chair at the table.

            Dean's rumbling stomach is about to eat itself when Misha finally proclaims, "We're ready!" twenty goddamn minutes later.

            Another bowl of semi-fresh fruit is placed in front of Dean, along with the egg thing with green stuff, probably yesterday's leftovers. Dean wrinkles his nose, edging back in his chair “More rabbit food, Popeye?”

           “You’re thinking of spinach, Olive Oyl,” Misha replies, and then, casual as you please, reaches out to brush his finger down the bridge of Dean’s nose, pulling back before Dean can swat him away. “Heed my word, kale’s way better.”

             "To be honest I was expecting something with a little more pizzazz."

             "Oh, you mean like . . . this? Wa-lah!" Emmanuel, who Dean had momentarily lost track of, comes up from behind him, carrying a plate with a large stack of fluffy golden-brown pancakes, not a burn mark in sight. And not just any pancakes - pancakes in funny shapes, a Mickey Mouse head, a star, even an octopus with four slim limbs. Slathered in cinnamon and maple syrup and not a leafy green thing in sight. Honestly, it all looks so good that Dean could blow Misha right here.“Contrary to popular belief, I occasionally take pity on my subjects,” Misha says as Dean helps himself, transferring three pancakes to his plate.

          “Mnn not yer subjeck,” Dean says, already spearing an entire piece off and shoveling into his mouth. Specks of food fly from his mouth before remembers to shit it.

          Misha huffs a laugh. "Keep telling yourself that, Not-Jensen."

          Swallowing his huge bite takes a bit of effort, but Dean manages. "Damn, Manny, this is good. You gotta try a bite," he says earnestly to where Emmanuel hovers by the table, watching Dean anxiously. Dean waves his fork at him. "Compliments to the chef."

           Although his smile is still characteristically small and hesitant, the light that blooms from Emmanuel and casts off some of the shadows surrounding him is well worth the effort. "Well, I suppose one mouthful couldn't hurt."

           Behind Emmanuel, Dean can see Misha throw him a look of approval.

          By some unspoken agreement Emmanuel and Misha take seats on either side of Dean, each with his own plate. There’s some general commotion as everyone gets settled in, plastic silverware being passed around and coffee and tea being poured. But then, once everyone’s squared away, a sort of tranquility falls over the kitchen. Emmanuel eats with tiny, bird-like bites, obviously not getting much out of it, but that smile of hsi sure won't quit. Even Misha seems to have found his zen, lazily stretching his toes under the table, hand floating up to his mouth to cover a yawn. Everything relaxed and mellow, it reminds Dean of the hazy memories he has of the house in Lawrence, Sundays mornings filled with the smells of his mom’s cooking while his dad bounced him on his knee, reading out the Sunday funnies to Dean.

           Simpler times for sure.

           By the time Dean has worked his way through his second stack of pancakes and third cup of coffee, even going so far as adding some of the egg and fruit because it's all _so damn good,_ Sam has made his way to the kitchen, shaggy hair still dripping wet from a recent shower. It takes only a single glance at his brother for Dean to ever so slightly tense, not enough to alert the doppelgangers but enough to still be prepared for whatever it is that's got Sam all wound up. He can read the signs - the tense set of his shoulders, clipped gait, and tight-lipped bitchface - and Dean knows that their bubble of peace is about to burst.

            “Good morning, Sam.” Oblivious as ever to the rising tension, Emmanuel offers the cheery greeting. Bless his gullible soul. "Did you sleep well?"

            "Peachy." The scrape of the chair is grating as Sam jerks it sharply across the floor to plop his ass down. But when Sam's gaze flickers to Emmanuel, he seems to visibly reign his temper in, if only for a moment. “You doing okay, Emmanuel?”

            “I . . .” Emmanuel’s gaze guiltily flickers once to Dean. “I’ve been better, if I'm honest . . . But helping to prepare breakfast cheered me up considerably.” He smiles at Misha, who winks cheekily in response.

             Glancing between the two of them, Dean wonders if his brother feels a sort of gratitude towards Emmanuel for coming to his rescue when Sam was suffering from the Hal-lucifer-nations. It might have been Castiel who took away Sam’s Hell memories, but it was Emmanuel who opted to give up his entire self and to become the angel once more for a man he had never even met. And Sam never got to thank him.

            Dean would make mention of it, but judging by the way Sam’s currently chewing on his cheek possibly hard enough to draw blood, he figures there are more important matters at hand.

            “Somethin’ on your mind, sunshine?" No response. "Spit it out, Sammy.”

            “Oh, no, nothing,” Sam says breezily with forced nonchalance, a blatant lie if Dean ever heard one. Sam takes a plate for himself and fills it with food with rough, stilted movements. “It’s just hard that I was really looking forward to a hot shower after my morning job.” He makes an exaggerated frown. "No biggie."

            “What?”

            “Misha and Future Cas used up all the hot water,” his brother growls out, viciously stabbing into his pancakes (significantly less saturated in to syrup than Dean’s)

            “Hey, I am right here!” Misha protests indignantly, face a mask of fake outrage, but both brothers ignore him.

            Dean rolls his eyes at Sam’s histrionics, turning back to his half-eaten breakfast. “I'm sure it wasn't that bad.”

            “It’s February, Dean,” Sam reminds him through gritted teeth.

            “It’ll build character,” Dean retorts, unconcerned.

            “I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you, Not-Jared. I’m sure you didn’t suffer too much shrinkage.” He squints exaggeratedly up at Sam. “You only look a few inches shorter.”

            Dean’s snorts into his coffee, nearly spraying it across the table, but Emmanuel only tilts his head at Sam, mystified. “Maybe you should see a doctor about that. It sounds quiet serious. Or perhaps I could –?”

            Dean cuts Emmanuel off with a partially-exasperated sigh. “It’s a _joke_ , Manny. Misha is calling Sam a giant dick. You know - _shrinkage_.”

            “Oh . . .” Emmanuel says as his gaze drifts off, apparently replaying it back in his head, then five seconds too late, he snickers, a strange, breathy noise that makes it sound like Emmanuel is only mimicking what he has seen other humans do. 

             Sam only huffs and rolls his eyes, recognizing a losing battle when he sees one. He returns to his food, and it’s quiet for the next few moments until Sam speaks up once more. “By the way . . . Dean, have you seen my phone?”

            “Uh, no? Why would I?”

            Sam shrugs, not looking too distressed about it. “I don’t know, it’s just . . . I’m _positive_ I left it in the library last night, but when I came back from my jog this morning, it was gone. I don’t know . . . usually I’m pretty good about remembering these sorts of things.”

            “Welcome to middle age, Sam,” Dean jokes, even if his heart isn’t really in it. “Next thing you know you’ll be leaving your key in the fridge, start watching _Happy Days_ reruns –”

            It’s only as Dean is looking away from Sam that, quite by accident, he catches Emmanuel’s gaze, darting immediately away from Dean’s. Clear as day, Dean can read the anxiety those blue orbs hold, the guilt. It’s Suspicious with a capital S, is what it is, but what would Emmanuel of all people need to steal Sam’s cell phone for?

            For now, Dean holds his tongue, hoping he’ll have time to corner Emmanuel later and get some answers.

            “It’s a good thing wigs can’t get gray hairs,” Misha is saying, still fucking around with Sam’s mop, belatedly aware of the bemused looks his incongruous statement elicits. “Oohhh, that’s right. The shag carpet is real in this world, isn’t it? Huh.”

            As if on cue, a smoky voice calls out, “Someone say shag?” Even with his hair still wet from a recent shower, Future Cas somehow still manages to look shabby and disheveled – if not _as_ dirty – as he did the day he arrived. The bottle is his hand swishes as he saunters in from the hallway to make a stop at the fridge, then goes up to the table, taking a chair and flipping it around backward so he can sit with his arms resting on the backrest, chin pillowed on his arms. “You know you can always count me in.”

            The scruffy man has barely pauses for breath before he's snapping the cap of the bottle with the table, taking a long draught that has his stubble-covered throat working with the motion. "Hey, er, Cas, er -" Dean has to pause, forcefully tear his gaze away from the erotic motion. "Don’t you think you should go easy there?”

            Licking his lips as he sets down the beer, Future Cas smoothly replies with, “Dean, have I ever told you you’re a filthy hypocrite?” and that's the end of that argument. For now.

            Castiel ambles his way into the kitchen not too long after, bundled up in the fuzzy dark blue robe that Cas had bought for himself with his hard-earned Gas-N-Sip paychecks (thankfully this time with boxers, per Sam’s prudish insistence).  After a split-second look to make sure Castiel really does look as good in that robe as he did last time. Dean’s gaze remain steadfastly fixed on his plate. That way, his eyes won’t get any funny ideas about raking over the fallen angel’s tanned body, remembering in vivid detail every way Dean had touched and worshiped and brought it pleasure. It’s hard, though (no pun intended) – he’s hyper-aware of the squirming sensation currently taking up residence in his stomach, unsettling his undigested breakfast.  

            _Last night_ _I finally found the courage to tell you I love you, and you couldn’t say it back._

            “Morning, Cas,” Sam heralds. “Grab a seat. There’s . . . hey, you okay, man? You’re not looking so hot.”

            Dean has no choice but to look up at that, alerted by the concern in Sam’s voice. And yeah, now that he’s getting a good look for himself, he can see why.

            With a heavy sigh that descends into a fit of coughing, Castiel doesn’t sit in the chair across from Dean so much as collapse in it, coughing as he bundles his robe tighter around himself. Castiel has always looked like a harassed bank teller, but now . . . now there the purple bags under his eyes are noticeably several shades darker, his nose red and sore-looking, sniffling as Dean watches Castiel blink drowsily.

            In summary: “You look like shit, Cas.”

            “There is something terribly wrong me,” Castiel says in agreement, unbothered by Dean’s brusqueness. “When I woke up this morning, I didn’t feel refreshed at all, in fact I felt _more_ tired, if such a thing is even possible. Every inch of my body is covered in sweat because I’m too hot. This disgusting liquid keeps leaking from my nose.” His sniffs pointedly. “And I can’t _breathe_.” He turns miserable, watery eyes on Dean. “It seems my human body is failing, Dean.”     

Amid soft snickering from Sam, Misha, and Future Cas, Dean leans forwards and places a hand onto Castiel’s sweaty forehead, Cas going cross-eyed trying to keep Dean’s hand in view. Castiel’s skin burns against Dean’s palm. “Or maybe you’ve come down with a little thing we humans like to call _the Common Cold._ ”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Misha eyeing him with a knowing look, and Dean quickly pulls his hand back, straining to keep his face poker-straight.

            Castiel squints suspiciously at Dean as he sits back down, frowning. “I’m not cold, I’m hot. Haven’t you been listening?” he snaps. His frown grows as his gaze turns inward. “Actually, no, I’m both. How is that possible?”

            “Now you’re just being facetious,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Grab a glass of OJ, Cas -"

          "But I want coffee -"

           " _Get some OJ, Ca_ s," Dean reiterates through gritted teeth. "Maybe give take some Tylenol. I’ll make you some chicken and rice soup later. Same thing my mom used to make me. You’ll feel like shit for a day, maybe two. Then you’ll bounce right back.” At Castiel’s dubious glance, he adds, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

            “ _I’m_ the one who is dying,” Castiel gripes, breaking into a fit of coughing again. By some divine miracle, Castiel at least has the common sense to cover his coughing in his fist (although Dean takes note not to let Castiel touch anything). “You are the one who refuses to takes this seriously. Meanwhile, my frail, squishy human body wastes away, and I . . . _IIIII –”_

            Eyes scrunched up, Castiel lets loose a rip-snorting sneeze into his hand, loud enough to scare the crap out of everyone at the table, Dean included. Beside Castiel, Sam not-so-subtly rocks his chair a few inches away from the sick angel.

            Castiel groans, looking down at his hand. “This keeps happening too,” he informs Dean, “no matter what how hard I try to stop it.” He considers his hand for a moment longer, sniffling, then he shoves the _slime_ -covered appendage within inches of Dean’s face. “Does this look infected to you?

            “Goddammit, Cas!” Dean arches his neck back as far as he can without tipping the chair over. “That’s disgusting! What are you, two?”

            “More like two trillion.”

            “Just – just. Ugh, just go get a freakin’ tissue and wipe it off, you weirdo.” Castiel rolls his eyes, like Dean is the one being hysterical. “And wash your freaking hands,” Dean adds when Casitel excuses himself to grab a paper towel by the sink. “With soap!”

            “This whole ordeal is tedious,” Castiel says hoarsely when he drops back into his seat after cleaning his hand off, shivering. He accepts the mug of tea Emmanuel pushes his way with a weary smile.

            “Being human sucks, doesn’t it?” Future Cas commiserates over his bowl of fruit, the empathy in his voice ruined by the slight smirk that Dean really doesn’t like. “Wait until you break a bone and you can’t heal it.” The smirk seems to dim a bit, grow bitterer, and his eyes flicker over to Dean. “Wait until _he_ gets hurt and you can’t heal him.”

            Out of the corner of his vision, Dean can see Castiel blanch.

            None-so-subtly, Dean clears his throat roughly, shooting daggers at Future Cas. “So what’s down on the agenda for the day?” he says, loud enough to drown out whatever Future Cas might say next to instigate trouble.

            His hand curling into a fist on the table, Castiel growls out, "Find the angel," right before proceeding to hack up another lung.

            By some divine miracle, Dean stifles a flinch. But only barely. “The angel? You mean the one I see sitting right in your chair?” he jokes, chuckling feebly. He can barely meet Cas's eyes, convinced that, mojo-less or not, his friend would be able to see what Dean _really_ dreamed about last night. 

            “I meant the actual angel, Dean,” Cas huffs irritably, pausing a moment to allow Sam to slap two flapjacks onto his plate, drowning them in syrup. “I don't know how yet,  but it seems he has devised a way to sneak out of the bunker.”

            The silence that descends at the table rings in Dean’s ears, matching the pace of his speeding heart, and Dean only risks meeting Sam’s eyes for a split-second, letting his brother _know_ they won’t be seeing Angel Castiel anytime soon, before focusing what Dean hopes is the approximation of a confused but earnest stare on Castiel. “That’s impossible, Cas. You footed the sigil-work yourself."

            "I did," Castiel agrees mildly. "That's what makes his unexplained absence so worrying."

            Without stopping to think what how to distract Cas, Dean blurts out, "Maybe he's hanging with Charlie, I don't see her here -"

            "Charlie's left after you crashed last night, something about checking in on Dorothy and her munchkins," Sam interjects, sounding for all the world like he's only being helpful and informative. "Said she'd be back later today."

            Lip just barely curled, Dean directs a sharp-eyed look at his brother. _Exactly w_ _ho's side are you on anyway?_

            Sam's arched eyebrow clearly replies, _Not yours. Now go lay in the bed you made._  

             Dean makes himself turn back to Cas, arranges his face into a suitable expression of disinterest. "Well, I don't know - you two had your little tiff yesterday; maybe he just doesn’t want to see your face. Try not to take it to hard, man”

            Castiel glowers at his food, mutters something like, “That's what I find most confounding. He up and down refused let you out of his sight yesterday and now suddenly he has arbitrarily deemed your supervision unnecessary? It doesn't add up.”

            Dean’s left blinking in bemusement at the grumpy angel as Misha mutters, “Looks like someone got bitten by the green-eyed monster,” right into Dean’s ear. “And judging by his epic pout, the biter unfortunately wasn’t you.”

            Unaware of Misha’s deductions, Castiel asks the table at large, “So no one here can provide any account of his whereabouts?” A sign of exasperation escapes Castiel, as though everyone in the world is disappointing him today.

            “Relax, Cas. I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. Here, have some more syrup, no one eats pancakes naked, you heathen –”

            But Future Cas is talking over Dean, with an ease suggesting that it’s second nature to him now, easier to be rude to Dean than anything else. “You know, now that you mention it, _Cas_ . . .” He presses a fingertip to his chapped bottom lip, seems to takes his time choosing his words, enjoying the attention he commands as everyone leans in closer to hear. “It just so happens that as I was on my way for a little, uh, midnight smoke, I couldn’t help but notice but our toothy friend has been pretty quiet lately.”

            The bottom of Dean’s stomach drops out. _Ohshitohshitohshitohshit._

He is so so screwed. This is it. Cas is going to find out everything. That Dean went behind his back and -

With the smallest of movements as to not draw attention to the fact he’s sweating bullets now, Dean turns his head at the tiniest angle to peek at Castiel’s reaction, can hardly breathe when Castiel’s brow puckers up.

            “Oh? Really?" Cas is already rising, pulling away from the table. "Well . . . maybe I should check on . . . it.”

             Dean can't get out of his seat fast enough. " _NO!_  Er, I mean," Dean backtracks swiftly at Castiel's startled face. "There's no way in Hell your in any shape to be charging in to interrogate Leviathan. Lemme go, I'm all done here anyway."

            And for one bright, glorious moment, Dean thinks it just might work, watches with anticipation the way Castiel slowly starts to sink back in his seat, exhaustion derived from sickness written heavily on his grayed features. But then -

             "You think I'm weak?" the fallen angel asks quietly, and an electric charge seems to excite the air. "You think that with my grace stolen I'm defenseless."

              Dean blinks, nonplussed by the rapid shift in the conversation.  "What? No, Cas  -"

              Castiel, however, is already jerking out of him chair, stumbling only barely. He says heatedly, "I apologize that your angel is not here, Dean, I know it must be terribly inconvenient. But despite what you think, I can still fight, common colds be damned." Meeting Dean's eyes, Cas downs his mug of tea in one go, and grabs his plate of pancakes in the other hand. "Now, here's what's going to go down," Castiel says, the slang still awkward on his tongue, no matter his peaking temper. " _We_ are going to check on Leviathan and then  _we_ are going to hunt down the angel. Capishe?"

              If Dean ever needed a sign that now was the time to come clean about the curse's fix, now would be it. To just get it over with. Maybe it'll be like resetting a bone. Sure, it'll suck for a week or two, Castiel unable to be in the same room with Dean with becoming disgusted, but maybe he'll get over it? Besides, it's clear to even Dean that Cas is getting the wrong idea about all this. Jealous even, although what does Misha know?

              But the words evaporate before they even make it to Dean's mouth, withering away to ash. It clogs his throat, mixing with the shame and _terror_   to form a toxic sludge. The only thing that makes it through the blockage is:

              "Yeah," Dean says gruffly, aware of everyone's eyes on him, reluctantly making to join Cas. "I capishe."

              _Coward._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edits may happen. They may not. Who knows, I'm so changeable!
> 
> Come talk to me about bottom!Dean and season 10 at my tumblr: I-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs


	12. Full Speed Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still grinning, Castiel says lightly, “I’m sorry, really. I’m must have mistook your ‘seriousness’ for misdirection.”
> 
> The laughter abruptly cuts off in Dean’s throat, his smile dropping like a withered leaf, and he barely manages to shoot a sheepish look at Castiel, who is watching Dean closely with quiet dismay. Expecting the oncoming storm, Dean’s already instinctively cringing away, but not before he’s stopped by Cas, who’s holding on steadfastly to Dean, fingers wrapped around his bicep. “If I didn’t know any better, Dean, I would say you’re doing everything you can to keep me away from Leviathan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's one more super-quick chapter to let everyone know I'm not dead (Real-life stuff is taking up my time, trying to find an apartment and move out). Hopefully this'll be that last character-building chapter for a while that'll let us get back into the main plot of Nine of a Kind.
> 
> All my love goes out for everyone who has supported me and Nine of the Kind, whether you've been here from the beginning or you're just finding it now. Seriously. Thank you.:3
> 
> One last thing: Super-vague spoiler for season 10, like blink-and-you'll-miss it. Free imaginary cookie for anyone who gets my dumb sense of humor.

_. . . Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six . . ._

            Each leaden step down the empty corridors brings Dean and Castiel closer to Leviathan’s makeshift cell, long since deserted, but not a single one brings with it any dawning moment of clarity or sudden epiphany on how to lay it down gently to Cas, explain this whole freaky-deaky mess. How to explain why . . . why _fucking_ each and every one of the clones seems to be the only way to send them back, that Dean’s life has essentially become some sort of fucked-up romcom, the unrated version that only comes out on DVD. How to explain why all the subterfuge was necessary, that he didn’t let Cas in on the plan because . . . because . . . because Dean was _embarrassed_. Sick to his stomach embarrassed, the same way Cas getting a glimpse of Dean’s porn stash makes Dean freak the fuck out, while at the same time he has no problem comparing the techniques of favorite porn stars with Charlie or pranking Sam by saving a screenshot of that tentacle anime he saw last week as the screensaver on Sam’s laptop.

           He’ll have to explain that Jimmy Novak, Angel Castiel, and Leviathan ( _especially_ Leviathan) meant nothing to him, that he had only acted out of necessity . . .

            Nope. Sorry. Not even Dean Winchester can swallow that load of bullshit. Not this time. Sure, Leviathan had been terrifying, disgusting, and shameful, something he just wants to drink away to forget more than he already has. But Jimmy had been the only ‘accident,’ one Dean had ardently embraced nonetheless, with hands and lips and cock. And he had loved it, loved Jimmy, if only for a night. And Angel Castiel . . . it was the only taste of Cas he would ever get, and Dean wouldn't trade it away for anything. Not even his own soul. 

           But would Dean have willingly sacrificed Castiel's trust - possibly their friendship - for that small moment of happiness? Uncomplicated, no-strings attached bliss like he's never known before? Because that just might be what happens.

_. . . Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one . . ._

No matter how many times Dean tries to work out the words in his head, rearranging them one way and then another like magnets on a refrigerator, he still ends up hating them both because they always end up sounding like the beginning of a cheater's plea begging for forgiveness the same time as for mercy. Which is so not what’s happening here – Cas isn’t his fucking _boyfriend_ or any of that shit - they don't do things like go on _dates_  for burgers or see movies together or rent hotel rooms . . . okay, well, there was that _one time_ in Redford after they left Nora's and Cas's not-date, but all they had done was buy some take-out and brought it back to a Motel 6 so they could chow down while they watched _The Terminator_ (a classic) and some crappy talk-show after that neither of them had really enjoyed. Better to laugh hollowly at lame jokes on B-list celebrity scandals than talk about all the things left unsaid between them, the knowledge hanging over them like a black cloud that come morning Dean wouldn't be offering to take Cas back home, to his _real_ home.

           But he digresses. For all the years spent fighting by each other's side, brothers-in-arms, they'll never be more than that. Dean has no claim on Castiel, nor the angel on him. No promise to fidelity exists between them.

           So why can’t he shake the guilt, the consuming sickness of betrayal withering deep in his gut?

           When it comes to doling out quippy one-liners from his endless stash or schmoozing up chicks at the bar for a little late night lovin’, Dean is slicker than a snake-oil salesman, always having the words to get what he needs. But this . . . telling Cassie and Lisa about his job and the supernatural lurking around them had been a thousand times easier compared to this. Losing those two had hurt, yeah, but losing Cas . . .

            He’ll never recover.

            In the end, though, it’s Castiel – or more specifically, Castiel’s increasingly phlegm-filled coughing – that provides Dean with an idea for distraction.

            “Hey, Cas, hold your horses for a sec,” he says just as Castiel fights through his third round of sputtered hacking in as many minutes. He reaches a hand out to grasp the crook of Castiel’s elbow, pulling the bedraggled angel to a grinding halt. Cas sways unsteadily on his feet with the pull of the motion, the damn plate of pancakes that Castiel obstinately insisted on bringing wiggling precariously for a moment in Castiel’s hand before settling. “I don’t know what your game plan is, but I doubt hacking your lung up is going to have Leviathan cowering in its gunked-up shoes any time soon. At best, you’re just gonna give it a bad case of the sniffles.”

            “What do you suggest we do then, Dean?” Castiel demands sourly, as irritable as ever. Poor guy still sounds congested and stuffed up, his voice dipping an octave lower than usual, sniffing loudly as he pulls his blue robe tighter. “Just _hope_ Leviathan didn’t slip its chains and isn’t currently lurking through the bunker? Sounds like a sound plan.”

            Dean rolls his eyes, decides it would be tactless to mention that if Leviathan _were_ loose, they’d all be stuck between its teeth by now. “A little bit of Nyquil and some cough drops between now and then won’t kill you, Cas. Or anyone else,” he adds with a pointed glare when Castiel opens his mouth to protest. “Besides, I really need to take a piss, I'm about to bust a pipe hear, okay?”

            “If it gets you to cease speaking about your urine volume, fine. One stop. But make it quick,” Castiel warns as they trudge off the way they came, backtracking towards the nearest bathroom. “Time is a commodity we do not have the luxury of wasting.”

           “Yes, your Highness,” Dean answers snippily, wrapping a bold arm around Castiel’s waist to make sure he doesn’t stumble over his own two feet and get pancake all over the floor. “God, you’re a pain in my ass when you’re sick. . . .”

         Dean wasn’t lying about his imminent pee-related emergency, though, and it is with great relief that they detour to the nearest bathroom, Dean making a beeline for the stall. Castiel hangs back by the door as Dean wastes no time in relieving himself.

            Position assumed, head thrown back in relief, he doesn’t even get ten goddamn seconds of quiet before, “. . . So I spent all night thinking about what Cain said –”

            “Golden rule of the men’s room, Cas," Dean cuts him off. "No chit-chatting with other dudes when the dicks are out. Respect the porcelain of solitude.”

             "But . . . wouldn't telling me all that qualify as you breaking the rule -?"

             " _Cas_."

             "Sorry." 

           When Dean finishes his business, he finds Castiel huddled up against the sink, rolling up his syrup-soaked pancakes and transferring them to his mouth with his fingers. Eating utensils are for lesser beings, apparently.

            “Sure hope you never tried chatting up any of your buds down at the Gas-N-Sip while they were in the john, Cas." Dean leers at the angel as he washes his hands in the sink. "Nobody wants to earn the rep of the Bathroom Creeper.”

            “I didn’t have ‘buds’ at my place of employment, Dean," Castiel says coolly as he takes another bite of pancake, and his tone would almost pass for nonchalant if Dean didn't recognize the underlying tension as a big honking warning sign. 

            "What?" Dean laughs incredulously, smile faltering when Castiel angles his face away and down, the back of his neck flushed pink. "C'mon - you're fucking with me. There must have been one dude that you didn't mind shooting the crap with."

            Castiel sneaks an enigmatic look at him that Dean can't decipher before glancing away uncomfortably, shrugging. "Since I devoted the majority my time to my work as a way to . . . to take my mind off other things . . .  I didn't have the time to form bonds with my coworkers through outside social activities, nor, as I quickly learned, the . . . capability." He musters up a wry, self-deprecating smile that does nothing to settle the pity and acidic guilt churning in Dean's stomach. "Even human, it seems I'm lacking in the people skills department." Castiel coughs up a gritty, unpracticed chuckle like he made a joke, although Dean can't remember ever being less amused than he is now.

             "What about Nora? You guys seemed pretty chummy, doesn't she count?" Dean asks unhappily, though he knows he has no one to blame but himself. He was the one to dump Castiel at that bus stop with nothing but a small duffel of essentials and forged documents. Whatever residual traces of jealously have long since evaporated, leaving only a desire to be reassured that someone was looking out for Cas when Dean couldn't.

              The fallen angel bobs his head in acknowledgement. "I suppose you could count Nora, yes," Castiel concedes, expression pensive. Then Cas sighs, shaking his head miserably while his gaze turns inward. "Honestly, I'm not sure if that still holds true; seeing as I left Idaho rather hastily, without leaving a note or saying goodbye.” It’s clear Castiel is attempting matter-of-fact, but he misses his mark by a mile, his mask of indifference marred by the tremulous note his voice trips over.

             Dean shifts awkwardly on his feet, unsure what comfort he can offer other than _I' m sorry_   - and there's a tired and outdated Winchester excuse if there ever was one, right up there with _I thought I was doing the right thing_  -  so instead he _tsks_ , moves closer until he can gently take Cas’s empty plate out of his hand and set it in the sink. “C’mere, you child,” he says softly, with exasperated affection. “You got syrup all over you.”

            “Perhaps it has escaped your notice, but I'm not a child, Dean,” Castiel snaps, but it lacks heat, and he doesn't fight Dean as he guides Cas to the sink, settling his hands under warm running water. Perhaps Castiel is sicker than he originally thought, Dean reasons as he grabs some paper towels and wets them, using them to dab at Castiel's face and syrup-smeared lips.

             "I know you aren't, Cas," Dean says softly, so intent on his task of cleaning away first the sweet stickiness and then the sweat of a fever from his forehead that he nearly misses the way Castiel, who had initially stiffened from surprise at the beyond-their-usual-boundaries contact, gradually leans into Dean's careful touch, his eyes sinking to half-mast. Dean knows he shouldn't, that they don't this kind of thing, but he wants one more moment of recklessness before it all comes crashing down.

            It's at the point that Dean's brain decides to call attention to the fact that he and Castiel are standing very, very close. Closer than they have been in weeks, in fact. It's a helluva mind-fuck to be honest, given that Dean has carnally known the body in front of him thrice within the last few days, just not the man. Look but don't touch, as always. A muscle ticks in Dean's jaw as he retrains himself from leaning forward to cover those scant inches and -

            By what must either be the grace of God or the good favor of the Devil himself, Castiel chooses that moment to break down into another bout of coughing, spinning away from Dean to hunch over the sink.

            “Here.” Dean slides up behind Cas, gently encouraging him to pry his death-grip from the rim so he can turn around and lean back against the sink. “Lemme at least have a good look at you before you toddle off anywhere, Sniffles.”

            “Look for what?” Castiel asks suspiciously, and this close, Dean can see the blue of Cas’s eyes even when he squints, slightly bloodshot as they may be.

            Dean shrugs, takes Castiel’s chin between his fingers to turn his head this way and that, although it beats the hell out of him what he’s actually looking for. He just wants an excuse to touch Cas. “Just wanna make sure I was right and all you have is a cold. Never know, though, might be something nastier. Something worse than a cold.”

            “Something . . . worse?”

            “Oh, sure.” Dean nods earnestly, working to keep his face straight, even when giggles bubble in his throat. “I mean, this sure _looks_ like something mild, but it could be the beginnings of strep, the mumps, maybe _small pox._ Better hope Jimmy was up-to-date on all his vaccinations -"

            Wild-eyed, Cas rises abruptly to his full height, the top of his head nearly knocking Dean in the chin. “Dean, you need to procure the chicken and rice soup you spoke of immediately! Should we contact nine-hundred and eleven? If not, I - I remember the man on the tv saying something about stopping, dropping, and rolling –”

           Dean grabs hold of Castiel before the hyperventilating angel can bolt off and start sticking himself with hypodermic needles in a fit of panic.

          “ _Woah_! Easy there, Mr. Hypochondriac, cool your heels. We’re not sending you to the ER for a damn cold." He finds himself rubbing one hand up and down the slope of Castiel's shoulders. "Besides, you look fine to me, pinky-swear it,” he says, even going so far as to actually worm his little finger under Castiel’s clammy one and lock them together.

           Castiel fails to look half-way convinced. “But you said you would –”

            “I know what I said, just gimme a minute.” After extracting a promise from Cas to not run off, Dean fetches cold medicine from the little stash of medical supplies he keeps in nearly every room of the bunker. With the life they lead, you’ll never known when you’ll need your basic field kit, and Dean likes to be prepared. He tosses the bottle to Castiel, who even while sick as a dog has the reflexes of a born solider, catching it deftly with one hand. “Here, this'll do in a pinch.”

            “Is this organic?” Castiel asks critically, intently perusing the label of the store-brand cough medicine, his brow pinched. “I’ve seen many news reports about how medicines with natural ingredients can ultimately be more beneficial for the body.”

            “. . . Yep. Sure. Uh-huh.”

            As Dean watches Castiel hum and then tentatively knock back the liquid medicine - "Bleh. The people on the news are clearly liars," Castiel says while he makes a scrunched up face of disgust, "organic tastes awful" - Dean can’t help but wish they had something stronger on hand, like some goddamn Nyquil. There’s a sure-fire way to knock Castiel off his ass for a while and spare Dean a few more hours. Generic brands are cheaper, though, and they only have so many stolen credit cards to burn through.

            Still. Doesn’t hurt to hedge his bets.

            “Better take another mouthful,” Dean encourages, pretends to not be watching Castiel as closely as he actually is. “Just in case, Cas. You wanna be able to breathe through your nose again, don’t you?”

            Castiel just gives him a gimlet eye in reproach. “But, Dean - the instructions printed in this infuriatingly tiny text state _very clearly_ to only take one sip to avoid drowsiness."

            “Hey, out of the two of us, who’s been human longer?” Dean asks, gesturing with a finger between the two of them. “Me, that’s who.”

            But Castiel’s jaw is already settling into that obstinate line Dean knows so well as he shakes his head mulishly, setting the bottle on the sink. “No, I’m sure this will suffice. As a matter of fact, I think I already feel it beginning to work.” As if to prove his point, Castiel unslouches from the sink and straightens, although judging by the strain showing in the deep lines collected around his eyes it's taking him no small amount of effort. His nose scrunches like he's fighting back a sneeze. "We should . . . we should be on our way."

            Dean still hasn’t figured out what to goddamn _say_. He isn’t _ready_. “Why the hurry, Cas? We just got here! We don't - um, we should –” Thinking quickly, Dean says the first thing that pops into his head. “Shower!” he shouts triumphantly, loud enough in the small space that Castiel jumps. Having no clue where he's going with this, Dean plows on. “Yeah, I mean, we’re here already, we may as, uh, take a shower? Scrub up and all that good stuff . . .”

           Castiel just stares at him with wide eyes, and it finally dawns on Dean what he actually just said. God- _dammit._ “ _Not together_!” he practically shouts. He must look like a raving lunatic at this point, nothing but dribble falling from his mouth, but he can’t stop, can only wildly backtrack. “I-I mean, separately, of course. Together, that would be – that would be really weird. Ha. Ha-ha," he laughs woodenly.

            “. . . Dean, maybe you too should have some of this,” Castiel suggests in wary concern, picking the cough syrup back up and offering it. “I fear this so-called common cold might be contagious."

           "What? No, Cas, I - no, get your germy hand away from me," Dean says as he bats away the offending limb when it wanders its way to his forehead in mimicry of Dean’s earlier gesture. “I’m good, I'm good, I’m just saying we should –”

           “I understand what you’re saying, Dean, and while I certainly agree cleanliness is important, in this case I don’t think showers set priority over finding out what a monster of Purgatory is plotting,” Castiel answers gruffly as he crosses his arms, a touch of the old exasperation creeping into his voice. “Personal hygiene will hardly be an effective weapon when we’re up to our eyeballs in the noxious slime of Leviathan.”

            Getting desperate now (oh, who he is he kidding, Dean pole-vaulted over ‘desperate’ when he considered drugging Cas up with cough syrup), he blurts out, “No offense, Cas, but you reek like you’re due for one." He sniffs in Castiel's direction for added emphasis, grimacing. "Like you're totally ripe, dude.”

            Recovering smoothly from his initial surprise, Castiel just cocks an arch eyebrow, smirk subtle, and Dean knows he’s in for it now. “Well, _no offense_ , Dean, but I wasn’t the one suffering from nocturnal emissions last night. Perhaps you’re the one in need of a good wash.”

            Silence coils in the wake of Castiel’s retort, wherein Dean can feel heat engulf his face and spread to the very tips of his ears. It quickly unravels when Dean breaks down into a fit of giggles, bending forward and clutching his middle. He latches a hand onto Cas’s shoulder to keep from falling to the floor, and he can tell by the vibrations running up the length of his arm that Castiel has joined him.

            “You _asshole_ ,” Dean chokes out as he wipes the tears from his eyes, pulling himself together long enough to sock Castiel playfully in the shoulder. “I’m trying to have a serious moment here and take care of you!”

             Still grinning, Castiel says lightly, “I’m sorry, really. I’m must have mistook your ‘seriousness’ for misdirection.”

            The laughter abruptly cuts off in Dean’s throat, his smile dropping like a withered leaf, and he barely manages to shoot a sheepish look at Castiel, who is watching Dean closely with quiet dismay. Expecting the oncoming storm, Dean’s already instinctively cringing away, but not before he’s stopped by Cas, who’s holding on steadfastly to Dean, fingers wrapped around his bicep. “If I didn’t know any better, Dean, I would say you’re doing everything you can to keep me away from Leviathan.”

             The renewed smile on Dean’s face is self-deprecating. “I’m that obvious, huh?” he asks quietly.

            “No, I just know you,” Castiel returns, just as soft. “But if I’m correct, that would mean you’ve been lying to me, Dean . . . Again.”

            “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Dean hedges, because it’s true enough. He’s doesn’t want his actions to hurt Cas, that’s the last thing he ever wanted.

            Castiel breathes out through his nose, watching Dean steadily with sad, searching eyes. “Sometimes ‘protecting’ the ones you love isn’t enough, Dean. Sometimes you have to let them figure things out on their own, make their own choices. This is my mess to fix, remember that.”

            Dean has to look away at that, clench his jaw, because in that moment a small, petty part of Dean kind of hates Castiel for thinking it’s that simple. Last time he let Castiel makes his own choices, all the angels fell from Heaven. Last time he let Sam makes his own choices, he nearly _died_ in a church before Dean stopped him. 

             When Dean doesn’t reply or return his gaze, Castiel takes that as a sign to lead this conversation by the hand. “As I said earlier, I’ve been thinking about what our resident God said in the dungeon, what he insinuated.” Dean can feel the weight of Castiel’s gaze on him as Cas continues. “Do you recall what he said?”

            “Dunno, Cas. Gotta be more specific” Dean says tightly, fidgeting now. But still the right words refuse to come. “Sounded like a whole lotta crazy to me.”

            The absence of Castiel’s gaze stings of disappointment as Castiel looks away, fixing his sight on the far wall. “He called you the key to all this.”

           “Ah,” is the only thing Dean can spit out, because _shit,_ in the craziness of the past few days, Dean had forgotten Godstiel’s cryptic message. _  
_

            “At the time I didn’t understand, passed it off as the rambling of a creature made insane by birth from spilled blood of innocents and sinners alike and misguided lust for power -" Castiel has to pause momentarily, his face haunted and ashamed, before he can continue. "When nothing in our research turned up anything edifying,” Castiel says, suddenly extremely interested in his fingernails. “I did the only thing I could – I went back and asked him myself.”

            The rest of Dean’s body seems to get the meaning of Cas’s words before Dean does, because for a moment he can’t understand why his ears are ringing and it feels like his stomach is trying to crawl up his windpipe. But when the words finally filter through his misfiring brain –

             “ _You – did – what_?” There’s a sharp throbbing pain in Dean’s temples now, and strangling the living daylights out of the angel might be the only thing that can cure it. “Why – what - when the hell was this, Cas?”

              “Yesterday,” Castiel replies defiantly, unruffled by Dean’s outburst. “While you were out, since I knew you would do everything you could thwart me otherwise if you knew.”

              "That thing is a god and you're not even an angel anymore," Dean growls out, so furiously angry that he feels his blood boil in his veins. "He could have destroyed you like I could swat a fly.."

               "But he didn't," Castiel replies frostily.

             Nearly a minute passes before Dean can properly rein in his raging emotions to speak again. “So?” he demands. “Did his bloody Holiness have anything 'edifying' to say?”

            “Not much,” Castiel admits with blatant reluctance, a scowl twisting his features. “Less than even the trifle amount I had dared hope for. Mostly he seemed content to insult me, calling me ‘mud-monkey’ and the like. Implied several times that you and I had . . . Well, it doesn’t matter. It quickly became apparent that my hunch was a dead-end. But then as I finally became fed up and started to leave, he called out to me, said that I was asking the wrong questions to the wrong person. He said I should ask Jimmy Novak.”

            _Of course he did. He must have known just like Leviathan and Angel Cas knew._  Dean licks his lips, the thumping of his heart nearly painful now. “Cas, I . . ."

            "What is going on with you, Dean?" Castiel whispers brokenly, staring at Dean in hopelessness. "You haven't been the same since you left the bunker after Kevin. I know you're angry, that you unfairly blame yourself, but you can't just _leave._ I - Sam and I need your help, we've always need your help -"

               "I am helping, Cas," Dean sighs, closing his eyes briefly because he can't bear to look at Castiel anymore. "I'm the only one who can."

               Castiel is shaking his head slowly. "Dean, I don't understand -"

             "Jimmy’s not here anymore, and he’s not with the Novaks, either." Castiel says something but Dean's doesn't stop, has gained to much momentum to stop. "You won’t find Leviathan or the angel either. Because I found the trick to beat the amulet the very first night. ” He swallows. “Because I –”

            At that same moment the door to the bathroom swings open to bounce off the wall, startling the crap out of both Dean and Castiel. A hurricane of frenzied motion, Sam bursts into the bathroom, panting like he’s just run up a mile up a hill.

            Or swept through the bunker in a frantic rush to find Dean.

“Hate to break up whatever you two got going on in here – and I really, really don’t want to know - but you need to get out here, Dean. Now.”

            “ _Oh, thank God_.” Dizzy with sheer relief, Dean has to lean a hand against the wall for support. Never has Dean ever been so glad that his brother was born with the ‘interrupting moose’ gene. He looks up at Sam. “What’s wrong? Someone get into a fist-fight over the hot water?”

            Sam’s face goes grim when he says tersely, “We’ve got company.”

            One connected look is all it takes for both Dean and Castiel to plow forward and out the bathroom with Sam, although not before Castiel leans into Dean and growls into his ear, “We’re not finished here.”

            “Later,” Dean hisses back, guilty but so goddam relieved for the interruption. A little more time bought, but Dean’s aware perhaps more than ever that holding back the truth is about as futile as holding back the incoming tide w. One way or another, it’s coming.

            They practically run down the corridors, towards the bunker’s entrance. Dean asks urgently, “Sam, who is it? Is it Abaddon? Are we under attack?”

            “Will I need to retrieve my pants?” Castiel asks mildly, and if that’s Castiel’s attempt at breath-before-the-battle humor, it kind of sucks.           

            Sam ignores Cas as they enter the war room, looks at Dean when he answers, “No, no demons. Definitely a complication, though . . . Isn’t that right, Emmanuel?”

            It’s only as Dean’s pounding up the steps into the war room that he notices the amnesiac man cowering off to the side, arms wrapped protectively around his middle. He looks at Dean once before his gaze skitters away. Everything about his posture screams guilt, and Dean wonders if he’s about to find out why Emmanuel _really_ tried to fly the coop under the cover of dawn. “I’m sorry, Dean. I . . .” He doesn’t finish.

            What the absolute hell is going on?

            Sam jerks his head towards the staircase, and Dean makes his way quickly up the steps, his brother and Castiel not far behind.

             Crowley, Abaddon, Gadreel, Metatron . . . it’s can’t any of them, or Sam would be packing more than Ruby’s knife. Dean saw the outline of the handle, the blade tucked covertly into the back of Sam’s jeans. Means that Sam brought it more as a precautionary measure more than anything else, that he doesn’t consider their guest an immediate threat as of yet.

            “Who the hell is calling at this hour?” Dean barks when they reach the bunker’s front door. He swings the rusty door open, and the red-haired woman who must have been waiting outside turns to look at him. “This had better be the Girl Scouts ‘cause we don’t take kindly to –”

            Dean’s careless words grind to a halt when he finally recognizes who it exactly is that’s standing at his front door, dressed like she’s on her way to Sunday church and staring up him with doe-like green eyes. But there’s no way – How could she – No one can find the bunker -

            _Unless someone phoned home_ , Dean thinks grimly, internally groaning in dismay as the puzzle pieces slides into place. It should have been _so_ obvious if Dean hadn’t been so focused on other things.

            Her gaze only stays on Dean for a perfunctory second before skipping to over his shoulders, tears forming in eyes so similarly shaped and colored to his own.

            “Emmanuel,” she whispers breathily. It doesn’t even cross Dean’s mind to stop her before she brushing past him, running in Castiel’s unprepared arms. Dean can only watch dumbly as she breaks into a bout of choking sobs, burrowing her face in his chest, not caring that Cas is naked save for his bathroom. “I thought you were dead. . . .”

            “Daphne,” Castiel says carefully, a name Dean has never before heard this Castiel say. One hand cautiously comes up to palm the back of her head, and perhaps it’s only Dean and Sam who can see how uncomfortable Cas is, because Daphne only clutches harder. “It’s good to see you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If It makes anyone feel better, this isn't me arbitrarily deciding to push back Dean coming clean. I had always planned this. (Don't worry, though. Soon, dear friends, soooooon.)  
> Also, I signed up for the DCBB 2015, so my writing time will be split between that and NoaK.


	13. Unexpected Guests: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were Emmanuel once, rocking the whole Miracle Worker shtick, living the perfect life with the perfect wife -”
> 
> “That ‘perfection’ was merely a veneer, Dean,’ Castiel points out. “And a thin one at that. Not knowing any better, I was broadcasting my location by performing my miracles, leading my enemies to us. My identity would have eventually gotten her killed had you not shown up when you did.”
> 
> “Yeah, but you were happy. Or, at least, Emmanuel was,” Dean insists, remembering everything Emmanuel himself had said, his desperation to return, and this time Castiel doesn’t contradict him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I'M SORRY THIS CHAPTER ISN'T EVEN HALF FINISHED BUT I JUST WANT TO REASSURE PEOPLE I'M STILL WRITING. i"M SO SORRY!
> 
> Warnings: talk of Emmanuel/Daphne + interactions (and Dean getting his wires crossed so it's almost like Cas/Daphne in his mind, which, no, Dean baby, no.) So lots of Irrationally Jealous!Dean. Also bickering, lots and lots of bickering. And Daphne will be more likeable next chapter, promise.  
> (Special thanks to Robbie Thompson for penning the wonderful Angel Heart and giving me a frame of reference for how I wanted Daphne/Emmanuel to differ from Amelia/Jimmy.

           “So . . . d’you think we should start charging for room and board yet?” Sam huffs jokingly under his breath, just loud enough for Dean beside him to hear.

           While Sam seems to find this is all so fucking hilarious, Dean barely manages a noncommittal grunt, his attention unwaveringly fixed on Daphne and Castiel. Dean doesn’t bother toning down his death glare or uncrossing him arms, because the pair aren’t even paying a lick of attention to him, huddled close and private at the map table and occasionally speaking in low, hushed tones that don’t carry to Dean’s ears. As he sulkily watches them Daphne, looking as clean and crisp as a hundred dollar bill in her button-up blue coat, pearls in her ears, reaches out a white-silk gloved hand to brush Castiel’s stubbled cheek as though her eyes aren’t enough to tell her the truth of what she’s seeing.

           He just catches the surprised whisper of, “ _You’re in need of a shave_.”

           A growl builds in Dean’s throat the same time a spark of pain lights up the crook of his right arm, and he's peripherally aware of Sam side-eyeing the fuck out of him, but he doesn’t give a single flying fuck, not a damn one, wants to erupt into motion, storm over there and rip her damn hands off, silk gloves and all. Who even still wears those things? And why is Castiel just _letting_ her touch him like that?

            When Daphne smiles shyly up at Cas, Dean can feel the jealously eat him up from the inside, a hot little coal that festers in his guts.

            No one has any idea where Emmanuel has fucked off to, but Dean’s going to throttle the sneaky bastard when he finds him.

            "Really, though, how does it feel to meet the other woman?" Sam cocks his head, expression pensive. "Or are you the other woman in this case?

             Instead of kicking Sam's ass like he dearly wants to, Dean just responds coolly with, "It's not too late for me to call up your ex-wife and makes this a real party, Mr. Winchester-Rosen."

             That gets Sam to shut right up, and Dean smiles in malicious delight. _Serves him right._

            When Sam does speak again his voice is still muted, but now bereft of its teasing edge. “We should check if she’s kosher, just in case,” and it’s a sign of how weird their lives have gotten in the last eight years that Dean doesn’t even have to ask him to clarify. God, but it's times like these that make him miss the salt-n-burn days.

            “You do it,” is Dean’s curt reply, too busy chewing the inside of his cheek and staring holes into the side of Castiel’s stupid head.

           Sam sighs, rolls his eyes. “Chicken,” he accuses, pushing off the wall before Dean can whack him upside the head.

            “Miss Allen?” Sam calls over, walking towards Daphne and Cas, shoulders hunched in that way Sam subconsciously does when he encounters civilians that could be easily spooked by a giant with Justin Bieber hair.

            Even so, Daphne still visibly shrinks back from the large Winchester she’s never met before, scooting noticeably closer to Castiel. “I – Yes?."

            “Hi. Sam Winchester," Sam answers. He offers his hand, which Daphne shakes after a moment’s hesitance. “We’ve never met, but your husband, Emmanuel? I was, uh . . .” Sam rubs at the back of his neck. “I was in a bad way a couple years back, and he literally saved my life. Really helped me through a bad spot.” Sam pointedly doesn’t so much as glance at Castiel while he says this, make any sign that the man he’s speaking of and the man sitting next to her are not the same.

             Right. Baby steps it is, then.

             “From the moment I first saw him, I knew God had recognized something truly special in Emmanuel. His gift is God’s way of letting the rest of the world see it, too.” Eyes shining with pride, Daphne smiles at Castiel and softly pats at his hand where it rests on his knee, and Dean’s damn near ready to thump his head against the wall. “I’ve never met a better man.”

              “Couldn’t agree more . . . Before we do anything, Miss Allen, do you mind if we run some tests?” Sam asks with a winning smile, putting on his friendliest, Danny Dogood persona. “For security purposes, of course. Don’t worry.” He raises his hands to show his empty palms, which Dean thinks is a little misleading given that Sam’ll have a rather large knife in them soon enough. “Nothing too invasive, of course.”

               Her smile falters, her knees pressing closer together. “Do – do you mean an eye exam or . . .?” Daphne asks hesitantly, gaze flickering first to Dean, sulking in the shadows, back then to Cas again, who only nods in solemn encouragement.

              “Ah, no, not quite, unfortunately.” Sam might tack on a sincere, “Please,” but it’s still accompanied by a firm, “We can’t allow you to stay if you don’t.”

              Even from where he keeps his distance, Dean can hear the shaky breathe she exhales, eyes wide in distress. If she’s a demon or shifter or whatever, she’s a pretty damn good actress, Dean thinks.

              But then again, they usually are.

             Only after a long moment filled only with apprehensive silence does Daphne finally gives her curt nod of consent, but then immediately skitters back when Sam procures the long silver knife and flask of holy water they always keep on hand for such purposes. “Wait, wait, but you said –”

             “It’s okay.” Castiel’s deep voice cuts through Daphne’s panic, clear as a bell (or at least, it is to Dean). His tone coveys nothing but patience and kindness. “These are necessary precautions. Sam won’t cut deep –” At this he shoots a pointed glance at Sam “– and it’ll be over quickly.”

            “Like getting a shot at the doctor’s,” Sam adds affably, though personally Dean thinks there are better metaphors his brother could have gone with.

             Only when Daphne offers up her shaky arm does Sam proceed forward, silver knife in hand. With a gentle movement, Sam barely runs the tip down across the top of her forearm, just enough to make the shallowest cut, and still she cries out in surprised pain. Dean has to forcefully make an effort not to roll his eyes, and somewhere in the back of his head a voice like Castiel’s is shouting abuse at him and calling him a childish ass, but he can't find it in him to care.

            Nothing happens other than the slight welling of blood, a single bead forming to slip down the side like a wayward tear. The more innocuous splashing of holy water on the same arm elicits the same result, minus the blood. No burns, no smoke. 100% grade-A human.

           And Dean feels the sting of disappointment.

           “What . . .” Daphne Allen’s voice quivers timorously, and she has to pause to swallow. Her eyes are still locked on the shallow cut where the blood has already congealed, and she’s looking a little green under the gills there. “What was the point of all that?”

           “To make sure you weren’t actually some scumbag demon riding a human meat-suit,” Dean finally calls out, vacating his spot by the wall to stride forward.  “Or some other lowlife, belly-crawling sonofabitch.”

            Daphne flinches at Dean’s crude language, a little twitch of her shoulders, and when she glances up sharply at Dean, she looks like she has half a mind to tell him off for it. Luckily for her, she apparently thinks better of it, and instead presses her lips in a thin, severe line. It’s the first flash of fire Dean has seen in her this entire time, however briefly, and Dean reluctantly begins to wonder if maybe he’d underestimated Daphne Allen.

             And then Dean wonders if she recognizes him, remembers him as the man who took her husband away. Judging by the way her gaze has hardened with equal parts fear and anger, she just might.

            She is not without her weaknesses, however, and Dean’s sharp gaze hadn’t missed the way her hand had flown to the burnished gold cross hanging from a chain around her throat when he’d said the word _demon._ And he intends to use that to his advantage.

            Stalking closer, Dean looms over Daphne, smirking, and goes in for the kill. “I’m sure you remember demons plenty well, don’cha, Miss Allen?”

            Daphne’s eyes go stark and wide as she utters a little gasp, and Sam hisses, " _Dean_!" at the same time Castiel shoots up from his chair like a loaded spring, retribution burning in his gaze.

            “Dean, may I speak with you for a minute?” Cas hisses through gritted teeth in an unnecessarily loud stage-whisper, and he doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s grabbing Dean by the arm, hauling him well out of earshot. Behind them, Dean can hear Sam mutter some vague apologies and _they’ll just be a moment_ and _So . . .  how are you enjoying Kansas so far?_

For a guy that was planning on making a career out of arguing with people, Sam’s small talk sure does suck.

            Only when they reach the antechamber that houses the entrance staircase and are safe from prying ears does Castiel release his death grip on Dean and shove him forward with a solid push, the momentum sending Dean briefly stumbling forward. “What the _hell_ is the matter with you?" Cas growls out, alarm outstripping his anger - for the moment, anyway. "This is hardly the time for Bad Cop, Dean!”

            “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean says coolly with his back to Cas, brushing invisible dust off himself with exaggerated movements. “What, I’m not allowed to have a pleasant chat with your little missus?”

            Dean does turn around at that, the better to see Castiel’s face and gauge his reaction at the cutting remark, and he’s not disappointed. Castiel stands there sheepishly, working his mouth for words that come up short, and Dean takes a savage pleasure at rubbing Castiel's face in it. And that’s merely the tip of the iceberg. There’s so much more he wants to scream, to lash out, to accuse. _I spent nearly a year_ mourning _you and you were with her the entire time._ _You practically_ left _me for her. When I got you back I was able to dupe myself into thinking you hadn’t actually loved her but suddenly, oh, look, here she is – and she looks at you like that and you let her touch you and I'm left thinking I got it all backwards –_

           He’s angry, so absolutely sick with jealousy and fury, he can’t even complete the sentence in his thoughts, just stands there fuming and wanting to sock Castiel right in his stupid, hapless face.

            “I – That is to say, we – Daphne and I are no longer . . . t-together, Dean,” Castiel eventually manages to stumble out quietly, unable or unwilling to say the M word. After a moment he jerks his  arm up to display the back of his naked left hand. With a bite of impatience, he adds, “You know that."

           “How would I?” Dean counters back harshly. “Never saw any divorce papers . . ." He turns and walks away to scrub a frustrated hand through his short hair before whipping back around, stabbing an accusing finger at Castiel. "You never _talk_ about her, Cas. I figured you just didn't care, that we could chalk it up to just another thing in our impossible lives and pretend it never happened, but now she just waltzed up to our front door and here you are getting all cozy with her." He pauses then, chuckles mirthlessly to himself. "Guess you won’t be needing us now that you’ve got your _wife_ to take care of you.”

           Castiel’s jaw stiffens, a muscle ticking in his cheek and a spark of indignation flashing in his eyes. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You’re being completely ridiculous.” His voice drop even lower, trembling with a fissure of hurt when he adds, “And needlessly cruel.”

            Dean smirks bitterly in response; the sad fucking irony of it all is that Castiel is being cruel with kindness, albeit unintentionally. Doesn't mean something doesn't twist sharply inside of Dean with every touch of Daphne's Castiel permits, with every word of objection Dean's forced to swallow down. "Maybe you've been too busy making goo-goo eyes at each other to notice, _Emmanuel_ ," Deab spits out the name out impulsively before he even makes the conscious decision to do so, "but my ears work just fine, thanks, and so do my ears, and all I see is you snuggling up nice and cozy with your old lady and - and -" Dean grasps for an appropriately horrific verb "- _canoodling_."

            "We are not 'canoodling," Castiel responds as he glares at Dean, voice stiff with barely suppressed anger. "And Daphne is hardly of advanced age, Dean, if anything, I'd say she's younger than you _-_ "

            “Just the right age to give a little peep show, right?” Dean quips, smiling wanly, though he's never been less amused in his entire life. His throat burns with bitterness, the unfairness of it all. “Remind her of what she’s missing?”

            At the angel's blank look Dean gestures wildly at Castiel and his blue robe, which has opened up a little to plunge halfway down Castiel’s chest, revealing an obscene amount of toned, tanned flesh. Flesh that Daphne had been none-too-subtly sneaking eyefuls of earlier. Frowning in confusion, Castiel follows Dean’s gaze only to jerk his head back up, blushing hot pink as he tightens the belt. 

           Dean’s responding smirk is probably a shade too smug, so really he should have anticipated what happened next.

           Nostrils flaring, Castiel strides forward until he’s backing Dean up against the wall, and this would usually be conjuring up all sorts of fun scenarios in Dean’s head if not for the promise of a good smiting brewing in Castiel’s eyes. " _Enough_. I don't understand where this sudden dislike of Daphne has sprung from, but you _will_ stop behaving like a child - or _else_." They might not be there anymore, but in that instant Dean can't help but easily picture Castiel's wings - sable-hued feathers with pretty blue and dusky violets mixed in, as they had been in that lucid dream - arching high to tower above them and cageing Dean in. Threatening and domineering and totally capable of making Dean go weak in the knees. Dean absently wonders if Cas misses them, if his human body still postures like it remembers their weight. If that grumpy bastard every wing-slapped Dean without his knowing, like he so clearly wants to do know. With a visible effort, Castiel manages to cool off into a more neutral tone, shoulders slumping just a smidge. "Her being here is about to complicate our already thorny situation, and she will be forced to come to terms with my true identity." A flicker of guilt passes over Castiel's face before he reins it in. "Since her pain is my fault, I don't see the harm in wishing to give her a small measure of  _comfort_ , Dean. Help her ease into it, as it were."

            Dean's eyes slip closed as he groans softy in exasperation, grimacing at the metal image of Castiel and Daphne entwined his traitor brain had presented him with. "Not a good enough reason to use the phrase, _ease into_ , Cas."

            "You know what I mean," Castiel snaps. 

            “Well, you sure are taking your sweet time with it,” Dean says waspishly, the floor beneath his good sense and discretion corroded away by petty jealousy and a desperate desire to _not lose Castiel._

            "Don't you think I'm well aware of the delicate nature of the situation, Dean?" Cas sighs wearily, his dominant eyebrow arched. "Even if you don’t see fit to include me in your decisions anymore and would rather keep blind and stumbling in the dark, it would be nice for just this once if you would have a little faith in me that I can handle it.”

            “Oh, believe me, Cas, it’s not you I don’t trust,” Dean mutters darkly, watching as the toe of his boot drags back and forth, scuffing the floor.

             Still frowning, Castiel stares at him for a few quick moments before he catches on and his eyes widen almost comically in disbelief. “You honestly believe Daphne has nefarious motives for being here?"

            “Well, I certainly don’t think she’s hear to swap stitching patterns."

             Castiel just shakes his head in weary dismay, apparently still stumped by Dean’s line of reasoning. “Why? What clandestine reasons could she possibly have? She’s an innocent soul, Dean, she cared for me when I had no one else.” His expression turns imploring, begging earnestly for Dean to understand. “At the very least I owe her a debt and an explanation.”

 Dean grinds his teeth together as the simmering anger rekindles itself, irrational yet no less intense. _You shouldn't have needed her_!he wants to scream back at Castiel.  _You’ve always had me!_

              “Just because she’s not a demon or some other fugly doesn’t mean she’s on the level, Cas.” He leans in, keeps his voice low despite they’re the only ones in the room. “It’s been years. Why now, of all times, does she choose to pop out of the woodwork?”

             “For Emmanuel, if I had to hazard a guess. It's hardly a coincidence.” Castiel doesn't bother keeping his voice down, probably just to be contrary. “How she found the bunker I’m still working out.”

             At that Dean coughs guiltily into his fist. “Um, yeah about that . . . I found Emmanuel trying to sneak out of the bunker earlier this morning.” Castiel glances up at Dean with wide eyes, but Dean continues. “Nutso-You blew the whistle on him and gave me a heads-up, but Manny couldn’t break out anyway. Not with your wards in place. And then at breakfast, Sam made some off-handed comment about his cell missing. I wasn’t gonna think anything of it, but then I saw Emmanuel looking shifty and I thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought, but now I’m starting to think someone was homesick and got a little fed up with sitting on their ass.” He chuckles wryly despite himself, shaking his head. “Never would have guessed Mr. Squeaky Clean himself retained your rebellious streak.”

             When Castiel finally finds his voice to speak, it’s with such heated indignation that it has the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck rising, catching him off guard. “And you didn’t think this was important enough to share with Sam and me? Or did you perhaps confide in Sam and then decide to leave me out?" He has to pause his diatribe momentarily to cough dryly into his fist, squeeze his eyes shut as he waits for the fit to pass. "Where do the lies end, Dean?” Castiel manages to shout during a lull, a growl ripping through him.

            Dean groans, shoving his face in his hands. “Dammit, Cas, I didn’t lie. Not about this anyway. It just . . . I don't know." He rubs at his temple where a five-alarm headache is swiftly forming. "Slipped my mind, I guess”

            “Convenient,” Castiel snorts coldly, straightening as he wipes his hand on his robe. "I still don't see how her wanting to see Emmanuel again must be labeled a Bad Thing. Complicated? Yes, most definitely. Dangerous? Hardly. Not if they stay well hidden."

            Dean just sighs and continues kneading his fingertips across the taunt skin of his forehead, so damn tired of this constant bickering between him and Castiel. "God, I could use a drink. To ten," he mutters darkly, and pointedly ignores the disapproving frown from Castiel this elicits. “Look, Cas, I’m gonna bottom line it for you: You can play house with Daphne all you want, but I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her, certainly not with Manny, and until she gives me good reason not to I'm not gonna say sorry for being cautious."

             “Maybe if you ceased acting like an unmitigated ass and actually gave her a chance to speak for herself, that wouldn’t be a problem,” Castiel interrupts him snarkily. “But that’s just my opinion.”

            Smirking without humor, Dean shakes his head. “Hah, here’s the thing, Cas,” he drawls. “She found you buck-ass naked in a river with your memory shot to hell and what is the first thing she did? Fucking stuck a ring on your finger and roped you into holy matrimony! How does any of that scream ‘sane with good intentions' to you, Cas?”

             Castiel refuses to rise to the bait, only watches Dean mutely with a glum frown, that deceptively mild kind that can peel back the layers that make up Dean Winchester with ease, examining each piece in kind. Gives Dean the heebie-jeebies if what it does.

             “ _What_?”

             “I’m sorry about what happened with Gadreel, Dean,” Castiel replies quietly after a few moments, pausing and resuming only after Dean’s startled flinch. “That you now think to protect yourself and us you must force yourself to see deceit and underlying motives where there is only compassion.” He moves closer, put himself into Dean’s space, eyes catching and holding Dean’s. “This time you don’t have to go it alone. You’ll have me.”

               _Not if you think you're better off with being human with Daphne,_  Dean thinks bitterly, but the way Cas is staring so damn earnestly at him has Dean smothering down the roiling anxiety for a moment, long enough to dredge up a small grin and dry chuckle. “Less dumb, less ass, right?”

            Castiel’s answering smile is a beautiful thing, all teeth and pink gums. “Well, perhaps more ass on your side.”

            "Thanks for that, dick." Warmth flows sluggishly through Dean, like the first sip of top-shelf whiskey after a long day, and it’s distracting, so he looks away, sniffs. “Hey, Cas, I know you’re not comfortable thinking back to all that, but I gotta ask . . . You were Emmanuel once, rocking the whole Miracle Worker shtick, living the perfect life with the perfect wife -”

            “That ‘perfection’ was merely a veneer, Dean,’ Castiel points out. “And a thin one at that. Not knowing any better, I was broadcasting my location by performing my miracles, leading my enemies to us. My identity would have eventually gotten her killed had you not shown up when you did.”

             “Yeah, but you were happy. Or, at least, Emmanuel was,” Dean insists, remembering everything Emmanuel himself had said, his desperation to return, and this time Castiel doesn’t contradict him. “Still . . . Any chance you can come up with a plan to convince him to give up all that up and stay here with us?”

            “And I suppose just letting him leave with her is out of the question?” Castiel asks ruefully after a pause.

            “Not when there’s the slightest chance some demon or other would spot them and wanna make a grab for a depowered angel.” When Castiel doesn't answer him right away, just stares at Dean with an indecipherable expression, Dean presses. "The bunker's the safest place until we can send 'em back, right, Cas?"

            “Or course," Castiel eventually says, although his words are strangely flat, laced with a bitter edge of sarcasm. "Wouldn't want any of the others to be without a home, now would we?" Before Dean can question him about that cryptic statement, Castiel seems to deflate a little, continuing with a sigh. “I’m sure we'll figure something out, but in any case you would do well to prepare yourself for the very real possibility that, short of imprisonment, we may be unable to stop Emmanuel from leaving . . . In the meantime, could you at least try not to scare Daphne half out of her wits?”

             “I will if she keeps her damn hands to herself,” Dean harrumphs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Otherwise, I’m making _no_ guarantees _and_ I'm getting my machete –”

            The scream, when it comes, is a welcome distraction. Piercing and unmistakably feminine, it bounces off the walls, and Dean damn near jumps out of his skin before he locks gazes with Castiel.

            “Fuck. Was that –?”

             “Yes.”

            One shared looked and they're both nodding. Dean gives the go-ahead with a curled twitch of his first two fingers, striding forward with Cas quickly taking his place by Dean's side, their hurried steps synchronized as they rush back to Sam and Daphne. Caution and experience have Dean reaching for the gun be belatedly realizes he does not have, but if Dean's hunches are proven correct he won't need a weapon.

            _Ah-ha, as I thought_ , Dean thinks grimly when he and Cas reach the main room and his gaze instinctively lands on Daphne, held back by a panicked-looking Sam. White-faced and trembling, she looks damn near like she’s swaying on the razor’s edge between fainting in the circle of Sam’s arms and having a full-scale panic attack. She stares steadfastly ahead of her with tears rolling down her face, lips shivering as she breathes out, " _What cruel trick is this_?"

            Hovering in the shadows under the archway that leads to the innards of the bunker is Emmanuel. One hand is held out mid-hip as if waiting for the signal to reach out and _touch_ , blue eyes gazing back at Daphne with a remorse that cuts deep into Dean.

            “ _Daphne._ ” It’s all Emmanuel is able to croak out, but Daphne sways on her feet all the same. Dean clenches his jaw, unable to look away, because apparently he's a glutton for punishment. “It’s . . . it’s good to see you again.” Emmanuel attempts a wobbly-lipped smile that isn’t returned.

            “Lord above . . .” Daphne whispers breathlessly, and she hastily makes the sign of the cross in front of her. “It _can’t_ be . . .”

            Only then does it occur to Dean that Emmanuel is wearing the exact same casual Sunday outfit that must have been the last thing she saw him in before he walked out of her – their – home forever. Her dead husband’s ghost, come back to haunt her.

             In that moment Dean has a strikingly vivid sense of déjà vu strong enough to nearly unbalance him: a clear recollection of that moment back in Colorado seconds after he’d gutted another run-of-the-mill demon and the sound of approaching footsteps had him glancing down the porch steps, expecting to see some random passerby and instead having the breath knocked out of him as he'd laid sights on Castiel for the first time in nearly a year. New haircut, different clothes, but very much _not dead_. It’s only now, two years later, as Dean watches Daphne go through a nearly-identical experience that he feels a bizarre sort of kinship towards her. Something akin to empathy, much as he really rather wouldn't. It makes it all the more harder to mistrust her. Hate her.

             Eyes still fixed unwavering on Daphne, Emmanuel takes a tentative step forward, and Dean suddenly finds himself unable to breathe right, body too busy bracing itself for the sickening, knee-to-the-stomach sensation he’d felt all those years ago whilst standing awkwardly in that spotless suburban living room with scuffed boots and demon blood still drying under his fingernails, watching like some sick peeping tom as the man identical in looks to the angel he'd spent months grieving left his side without a second glance to rush straight to some unknown woman. Emmanuel had orbited her like they were caught in each other’s gravity, and Dean had _ached_. This time around, well, it’ll suck – like getting a tooth extracted sucks, like being shot in the chest sucks – but at least Dean knows what to expect. Maybe if won’t hurt as much this second time, Dean thinks, then snorts softly to himself.

            Except . . . that’s not how it goes down at all. After that initial step Emmanuel makes no move to proceed any further, dithering on the spot. Then, unmistakably, that same sad-eyed stare flickers towards Dean. Guilt, a plea for forgiveness and understanding . . . and something else, something intent, as though Emmanuel is searching Dean’s face for a sign. But a sign of what? What the hell is Manny playing at?

             Dean’s not the only one who had expected a more welcoming reaction. Daphne clearly flounders from the step away from the script, and as she calms herself down, pulls away from Sam to stand on her own. “Emmanuel, is that – is that really you?”

            It’s only when Castiel shifts uncomfortably beside Dean does Daphne seem to remember that – oh, yeah – the blue-eyed, dark-haired man in front of her is not the one she had snuggled up with only minutes ago. Her cheeks pinken noticeably when her wide-eyed stare switches back to Cas.

            “Oh! I . . . I don’t understand,” Daphne murmurs shakily, head swiveling between the two doppelgangers, and next to each other, the differences stand clear: Castiel, tanned and sweaty from fever and nearly nude in his robe, distinctly rumbled-looking, and Emmanuel, looking like he just stepped out of a Land’s End uncatalogued, not a hair out of place. It’s the former Daphne's stare eventually sticks on, moves swiftly towards the seemingly only safe anchor in the room.

           “Emman -" She cuts off, clearly unsure how to address Castiel, but still casting a hopeful look at him. "I don’t understand. What's happening?” Making plaintive eyes at him, Daphne moves to take Castiel’s hands in hers, seeking comfort in the pleasure of familiar touch.

           However, Castiel only allows the connection for a moment, and after a furtive look at Dean and his most likely stony expression, he encloses both her hands in his larger ones, pushing them gently but insistently back towards her chest with a whispered, " _I'm sorry_."

          The rejection is clear, soft-spoken but no less forceful, shattering. Daphne visibly fathers, green eyes unblinking and shiny with unshed tears. ". . . What?" 

            Castiel looks absolutely wretched as he looks down at her, and despite Dean’s conviction that Cas made his bed and he can damn well sleep in it, the sincere remorse in the angel’s gritty rumble stirs a shiver of sympathy in Dean. Hell, he even feels bad for Daphne now - it's not like Dean can't relate.

           “I should have told you sooner, and I apologize for that, but you deserve to know the truth. My name is Castiel and I’m not your husband,” Castiel continues, guilt plain as day on his features, the _not anymore_ left unsaid.

            “Oh,” she says in stunned disbelief, unsure of what to make of this peculiar turn of events. "Castiel . . . That’s the name of the angel of Thursday, if I’m not mistaken.”

           “You may call me Cas if it makes you more comfortable." In a softer tone, one Dean suspects Castiel uses so he won't be over heard by Emmanuel, Castiel says with a rueful smile, "I just wanted the chance to meet you for myself, to thank you for caring me.”

            “Oh . . . you're welcome?” Daphne replies, clearly not understanding him, or getting that _Castiel_ was Emmanuel.

            But it must bring Castiel a certain measure of satisfaction because he nods, smiling, then turns his head towards his doppelganger. "The man you have been looking for is behind you - Emmanuel Allen as you remember him.”

            Emmanuel shifts on his feet, but chooses to remain silent, waiting for Daphne to see the impossible truth with her own eyes. 

            Daphne takes a moment to process this claim, gaze back to flickering between the two. “Are you . . . . I’m sorry, I don’t.” She shakes her head before hiding her gaze behind a shaking hand, sniffling. It takes nearly half a minute before she can regain her composure, Castiel watching helplessly all the while. Dean shifts uneasily beside the angel, wanting nothing more to sneak off and escape all this, but a single stern look from Sam has him holding his place. Still wiping discretely at her nose, Daphne tucks a loose curl of copper hair behind her ear as she takes in Castiel and his disheveled appearance with new eyes. “. . . Are you Emmanuel’s brother? A twin perhaps?"

             “No, we are not related - er, at least, not in the sense you mean," Castiel hedges uneasily. _Help me_ , his face pleads when he shoots a wide-eyed look at Dean. 

              Fuck. How much to tell her, how much to conceal for the sake of her sanity?

             “Miss Allen,” Dean starts slowly, “you’re gonna find this hard to believe, but Manny and Cas, they’re not just cut from the same cloth, they’re, well . . . erhm –”

             “We are one and the same.”

              Four heads turn to watch in surprise as Emmanuel vacates his shadowy spot under the archway, cautiously makes his way towards their huddled group. However, he stops just short of actually joining them, preferring to keep his distance at the opposite side of the table. “It’s okay, Dean, Castiel. I think it best if I take it from here.”

              Dean’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “You _knew_?”

              Emmanuel nods his head dolefully, mouth pressed in firm line that speaks of regret, a plea for understanding and clemency. “I didn’t intend to keep so many secrets from you, believe me, they just seemed to . . . pile up expectantly." He sighs, glances down to where his hands play with the hem of his cardigan. "Perhaps if I had been more observant and less . . . engrossed in other matters, maybe I could have figured out my true identity before today. Then I could have avoided dragging Daphne into this whole mess.”

              Tears are gathering at the corners of Daphne’s jade eyes again, but she remains silent, staring at Emmanuel, drinking in the sight of him.

              “How long?” It’s Sam who chips in this time, although he sounds more intellectually curious than perturbed, the giant nerd.

              “Only since breakfast this morning did I begin to piece it all together. Please understand, I don’t blame you for hiding the truth from me, Dean. I’m still coming to terms with it myself. It’s . . .” Gripping the back of a chair, Emmanuel sighs expansively, gaze hooded. “It’s a lot to take in, learning I was reborn from an angel.”

             “Yeah, well, not everyone can be secretly royalty,” Dean says, trying for flippant. Out of the corner of his vision, how sees Daphne mouth, _Angel_?, but he ignores her. “Still doesn’t explain how you worked that out on your own.”

              “Let’s just say you gave me much to ponder over after our morning discussion.” Emmanuel’s smile is small but wry. “I’m amnesic, Dean, not a simpleton.”

               “Oh,” Dean says, who hadn’t been expecting such a show of nonchalance. It’s all feeling a little anticlimactic, really. “Well. Good. That settles it, then. You don’t, uh, actually _remember_ , do you?” he asks warily.

               “No, nothing, much as I’ve tried,” Emmanuel answers with a tinge of weary bitterness, and Dean allows himself a small sigh of relief. Perhaps this time around, Emmanuel doesn’t need to be reminded of the terrible but ultimately necessary decisions Castiel made to derail the second Apocalypse.

                “But you’re here now, and that’s enough, more than enough.” Daphne moving tentatively, stepping around the table. Awe and wonder are plain as day on her face, like she’s witnessing a divine miracle. She reaches out until her hand presses against Emmanuel’s chest, fingers splayed. “You’re real, solid and whole.” She laughs breathily, shakes her head as though to rid herself of any remaining shreds of doubt. “I’ve imagined us reuniting countless times whenever I came close to giving up, but I never saw it happening quite like this . . .  You look as through you've hardly aged a day.”

                  _Well, she ain't wrong,_ Dean thinks grimly, but he's distracted from making his thoughts verbal by how Emmanuel moves closer to her so he can cover her hand with his own, smiling down at her with soft affection.

                 “Yes, meeting a spouse’s doppelganger can be something of an unexpected occasion,” he says with a touch of unexpected dry humor. 

               “Or course, but - An _angel,_ Emmanuel,” she whispers reverently, looking back over her shoulder Castiel, and she doesn’t seem the least bit disappointed that her first meeting with a celestial being is a one with a head-cold, kicking around in his bathrobe.   

               “Yeah, and not the Victoria’s Secret kind, either,” Dean jokes weakly in a voice a shade too loud, and immediately lives to regret it, feels like an ass when both Daphne and Emmanuel startle and stare at him as he fidgets uncomfortably and fights the urge to bail. Beside him, Sam runs a palm over his face to discreetly pinch the bridge of his nose.

               Daphne’s mistrustful gaze lingers on Dean for a few moments before she focuses back on Emmanuel. “But this explains nothing, none of it  . . . How can you both be here at the same time? Are you still an angel? What have you been doing all these years? And why –” It’s here her voice breaks like shards of glass – “why didn’t you come back for me, Emmanuel? _Why_?”

             His other hand comes up to frame her cheek, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. "I'm so sorry, Daphne," Emmanuel says, his own voice trembling with emotion. "Nothing I can say or do will ever make up for what you've lost, but you need to know this: I never meant to hurt you this way."

             Finally, Dean looks away. He can just see from his peripheral Castiel clenching his fists.

             Surprisingly, it’s Sam who speaks up this time after an appropriate length of silence, clapping his hands loud enough to startle everyone, including Dean. “I don't know about everyone else, but I think this is the kind of discussion we should have sitting down. We got a lot of ground to cover here.” Sam’s already pulling out a chair before anyone can say something, and honestly, Dean thinks everyone is glad someone is willing to take control of the situation. “Take a seat, Miss Allen. Let me get you something to drink.”

              “Daphne prefers chamomile, Sam,” Cas and Emmanuel say at the exact same time, then startle and look at each other with twin expressions of confusion.

              "Chamomile, got it," Sam acknowledges, glancing between the two with a little smirk, and like he wants to take a picture of the two and hang it up on the fridge. "I'll be back . . ."

              “Goodness,” Daphne laughs shakily as she sits, pulling Emmanuel down with her. “You really are the same. . . .”

             “Bring a couple of beers for me and Cas, Sam!” Dean calls out as he takes a seat directly across from Daphne and Emmanuel. Castiel takes the seat next to him, and although it's simply Cas's only option for seating, Dean can't help but feel a little better with his best friend by his side for this, no matter how circumstances have them butting heads more often than not.

               "Get them yourself, dick!" Sam calls over his shoulder as he disappears down the corridor, walking as quickly as his pole-like legs can carry him. Something tells Dean his brother will be talking his sweet old time getting those drinks.

              "Ah, he'll get them, don't worry," he tells Cas, who couldn't look physically less worried if he tried. Getting comfortable in his chair for what looks to be shaping up to be a real humdinger of a talk, Dean spots Daphne not-so-furtively staring at him with an upturned expression that could be called distaste. Good, at least he knows he gets under her skin as much as she does his.

             "Penny for your thoughts?" he asks with an insincere smile, sharp as the gleam of his blade, indolent as ever. Castiel kicks him under the table, hard, and Dean kicks back, but his aim sucks and he ends up banging his shin something fierce. 

             “Emmanuel and I want to have this conversation in _private_ ," she says with a voice hard like steel. Somehow she manages to maintain that creepy half-smile, as falsely sweet as Dean's own, but there's a rather unattractive red flush spreading up the back of her neck. Dean doesn't miss they way her hand finds Emmanuel's and firmly clamps down, like a handler choking back on the dog leash.

             "Well, I think that Manny is a big boy who doesn't need his pull-ups anymore, so maybe we should let him speak for himself,” Dean responds with best shit-eating grin, kicking his boots up onto the table so he can lean back, head pillowed on his crossed arms. "He doesn't need you to pack his Superman lunchbox or hold his dick for him, neither."

              Daphne puffs up like a hen that's had one too many feathers plucked. "His name is _Emmanuel_ , and he is my husband, not your toy -"

              "I never said -!" Dean retorts hotly

             “Daphne, please,” Emmanuel intervenes plaintively, drawing her attention back to him, and Dean returns to his respective corner by Castiel's hand on his shoulder.  “Dean has graciously allowed me to tread on his hospitality these few days, and I . . . I want him to be here for this. He has as much a right as you to know why I’m doing this.”

             He squeezes her hand as they continue their conversation through silent looks, and Dean grinding his teeth so hard he's going to have to make a dentist's appointment when this is all said and done. When Dean clears his throat, ready to get to the brass tacks of it all, Daphne refuses to look at Dean, keeps her gaze fixed on Emmanuel, but her estranged husband turns to Dean, expression sheepish and apologetic.

             “No much left to know, Manny,” Dean says. “You nicked Sam’s phone to chat up Daphne, didn’t you? Hope you didn't call collect.”

              “I prefer the term _borrowed_ ,” Emmanuel protests nervously, guilt-ridden eyes flickering back the way Sam left. “I put it back after breakfast, and even left Sam a note of apology.”

              Dean _tsks_. “Yeah, and would have flown the coop had I not stopped you,” he points out.

             “But then you changed my mind,” Emmanuel states, and there's no anger in his voice, or regret. It's neutral, like he's merely stating a well-known fact, but there's an unknown emotion flickering in this blue of his eyes. “But it was too late to call Daphne back.”

             “What . . . Emmanuel, I thought you wanted me to be here,” Daphne says hesitantly, hurt. "I thought you wanted me to take you home."

              “I did,” Emmanuel assures hastily. “I . . . I still . . . ." He sighs, frustration evident in the furrows forming in his brow. "But I didn’t realize what I might be getting you caught up into, or that it had been two years since I last saw you. _Years_ , Daphne."

              Daphne makes a noise of frustration, and Dean can tell the absurdness of the conversation is getting to her. “How, though? How can you just ‘forget’ for two years, Emmanuel? You didn’t even leave me a damn note!"

             "You must understand," Castiel cuts in, the only one with a modicum of calm here. "It's wasn't his fault, circumstances beyond his control-"

              Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh for the love of - Manny came with me to fix up my brother, shit went down, Castiel remembered who he was and suited up to full angel. Bada-bing, bada-boom, no more Emmanuel."

              “ _Dean_ ,” Cas hisses, while Daphne pales to a color of bleached bone. Emmanuel, on the other hand, only stares at Dean, mouth agape, mute in the face of the end of his short life.

                “What? This is taking too long and I’ve got plans for the day," Dean snaps, careful to keep his gaze trained away from Emmanuel, and the guilt he feels every time he looks at him, knowing he would still make the same call. Anything to get Castiel back.

               "This is all well and good," Daphne says tremulously, and Dean can see her fighting back real tears, but she's directing her accusing glare at Castiel now, "But none of this explains why you didn't come back . . . Why you didn't say goodbye?"

                  "Cas, you don't have to answer that," Dean jumps in, glaring right back at Daphne.

                "No . . . no, Dean, I do . . . ," Castiel says before turning his full attention to Daphne. "When I got my memory back I was still . . . very ill, and felt like dangerous, not only to myself but to those around me. But the time I fully recovered . . . well, enough time had passed that I figured you had moved on. At least, it was the lie I told to myself to make myself feel better."

                ". . . And Emmanuel? Why is he here?"

                 "Magic amulet express," Dean chips in. "Way better than flying Delta."

                 "Is that some sort of joke?" Daphne asks eventually, indignant anger simmering just beneath the surface. "Do you think I'm stupid?

                 " _Really_? You'll believe the angel thing no problem but anything pagan and you freak?" Dean groans in exhaustion, leaning back to rub his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Look, lady, you might think we're all drank the lime Kool-Aid and I don't care. Emmanuel is here now, but we don't know for how long. Use this chance to get some closure."

                “So . . . say I believe you,” Daphne begins, tapping her nails against the table, and there’s a careful, calculating note to her voice that Dean doesn’t like. “What you’re saying is that Emmanuel was the only one . . . recalled by the s-spell.”

                 Dean and Castiel chance the quickest of looks with each other, before turning back to Daphne with the most reassuring looks plastered on their faces. “Yep. Uh-huh. Totally.”

                 “We can assure you it was just Emmanuel,” Castiel seconds, screwing up his face into something he must thinks seems open and reassuring, missing the mark by a mile . "Absolutely no one else. That would be . . . .that would be _weird_. Even for us. Which is not that case this time. It's -"

                "Cas, I'mma gonna stop you there," Dean interjects. 

                 Daphne nods slowly as she eyes them, lips set into a tight line. “Then who’s he?”

                 “Uh . . . who?”

                  Eyebrows raised, Daphne jerks her chin upwards, and Dean spins around – _Please don’t be him, anyone but him_  - the bottom of his stomach dropping out. _Of_ course _it’s him_.

                 One hand tucked in the pocket of his dirty jeans and the other shoving a banana of all things obscenely into his mouth, Future Cas is strolling nonchalantly into the room, looking for all the world like he just wanted to stretch his legs. His bare toes wiggle out beneath the frayed end of his jeans and there’s no pretending the smoky, earthy stink wafting off him is anything as mundane as cigarette smoke.

                  “Oohh, you should have told me we had company over. I would have gotten the poufs and scented oils,” he says around a mouthful of banana. He locks eyes on Dean, winking like he’s knows exactly the trouble his mere presence is creating, before getting back to nonchalantly deep-throating that damn piece of throat.

                 Dean’s already burying his face into his hands when Castiel leans closer to growl into his ear, “I think now might be the time for us to invest in locks and shock collars."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry this took so long. Thank you everyone for your incredible dedication and patience. I solemnly swear that now that I have the apartment situation under control, I'll won't put off the next chapter again.
> 
> (Psss feedback for this chapter would be greatly appreciated, as I struggled quite a bit in the middle)
> 
> Check out my tumblr blog so we can pine away during the hellatus: I-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs


	14. Unexpected Guests: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when I allowed my mind to wander,” Emmanuel says, “I would try to remember my old life. But I never did. And I hoped that, whoever I had been, that I had been unimportant, alone, so that no one would feel my absence."
> 
> “Didn’t quite work out that way,” Dean mutters softly, steadfastely ignoring the side-eyed look Castiel gives him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Kicks down the door* 'Sup, bitches. Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me!
> 
> Work is hard and roommates mean I socialize more than twice a day, but I finally got this done. And guess what? You get another chapter exactly one week from now because I needed a way to split up 23k. 
> 
> Also, it's 1 am here, and I have work in like 6 hours, so I'm gonna post this now and edit tomorrow , so if you come back to read this chapter again and think, "Huh, I don't remember this random bit of dialogue," that's because I'm asshole.
> 
> Warnings for blasphemy, cheap shots at Christianity that are not necessarily the views and opinions of the author. (Except they in this case they are)
> 
> (Since they aren’t many Castels in this chapter and writing out full titles is superfluous: Castiel = regular Cas; Cas = Future Cas).

_Swear that fucker’s not even eating it anymore – just shoving it right up in there._ Expression undoubtedly sour, Dean irritably side-eyes the offender in question. _No freakin’ way he can possibly fit any more of that damn fruit in there._

            As Dean surreptitiously watches, a smirk appears on Future Cas’s face from where he lounges carelessly beside Dean at the table, a slow curl of lips that spells nothing but bad intentions. Deliberately catching Dean’s eye, Cas presses the shaft of the banana deeper into his mouth until the head bulges obscenely against the inside of his bristly cheek, and as far as innuendo goes it’s about as subtle as a shovel to the face.  

            “You severely underestimate my talent,” Cas says with a far-too-smug expression as he releases the poor fruit from its entrapment, tip shiny with saliva, and God help Dean if that deep voice doesn’t sound even grittier than before, like his throat’s been rubbed raw. . . .

            Dean scowls blackly as he forces himself to lean away, unobtrusively dropping a hand to strategically cover his crotch where his dick twitches inside the confines of his jeans.  “Thought you couldn’t read my mind, not with your batteries drained dry," he grumps.

            That sly smirk only blooms wider, and Cas takes another languorous bite of his banana like he has no other plans for the day other than to sit there and be an absolute fucking menace. “Never had to for you, Dean. I’ve always been able to read you like an open book, mojo or not.” His gaze drops downwards to Dean’s traitorous dick like it’s proven Cas’s point for him.

            For a guy that more or less implied he was suicidal yesterday before slipping into a fugue-like state of murky depression, Cas sure is a cocky sonuvabitch.

            “Like you could be trusted with a book; you’d probably try to smoke it and – ah, crap, wait. I already used that line,” Dean mutters grudgingly, face warm and still scowling peevishly, which only adds a delighted twinkle of mirth to Cas’s otherwise hazy eyes. It’s almost worrying how quickly he bounced back to his normal, irreverent self. He’s certainly doesn’t _look_ upset, but with the way this guy self-medicates, who can tell? “Cas . . ." Dean leans in closer, speaks in an undertone. "How are you –?”

            “Maybe if you stop getting so hung up on labels, you’d find some better material,” Future Cas suggests loudly, slapping Dean condescendingly on the shoulder. There's a challenging gleam in his eye when he pulls back, like he really can read Dean's mind, daring Dean to just try to treat him any differently, like he's a fragile thing that needs to be handled with kids gloves, and see what happens. Dean reads the message to _lay off_ loud and clear. “Better luck next time.”

            Dean's mouth tightens, but he backs off all the same.

            On Dean’s other side, Castiel sighs with unmasked impatience, sniffing pointedly as he pulls his robe tighter around himself and generally looking nothing short of miserable, the bruise-like shadows under his eyes darker than ever. Dean would have sent him packing to bed with an ice pack and a box of tissues hours ago if Castiel, ever the stubborn martyr, hadn’t gotten that flinty look in his rheumy eyes at the mere suggestion that he take a breather. Without words, he conveyed his clear intent to see this one through, puny human limitations be damned. Across from them, Daphne has fallen mute, sharp green eyes staring fixedly at Future Cas with her face set in a tight expression that's half-revulsion and half-reluctant curiosity. It could mean anything from 'she's processing and slowly coming to terms with the new world shift' to 'she's seconds away from shrieking like a banshee and stabbing everyone in the eye with one of her kitten heels.' Beside her, Emmanuel sneaks furtive glances at Daphne, at the Castiels, at  _Dean_ , as he fidgets obtrusively in his seat, and just plain looks as uncomfortable as a person could possibly be.

            “This is very awkward,” Emmanuel says quietly after several failed attempts to speak up, apropos as ever, and Dean just barely refrains from muttering a snide, _Thank you, Captain Obvious._

           The tension of the room, already thick of enough that you’d need a machete just to hack your way from one end to the other, has doubled with Future Cas’s unexpected appearance. He had traipsed into the room, unaware – or most likely ignoring and thoroughly enjoying – the disapproving looks silently laid upon him by Dean, Castiel, Emmanuel, and Daphne, plopping into the seat beside Dean before Dean could kick the chair away from him. And he shows no signs of fucking off anytime soon.

            And just where the hell is that coward Sam with those damn drinks? This is at least a two beer situation, possibly three.

            “Excuse me, but who exactly  _are_  you?” Daphne finally breaks her silence, her demand not quite a snap, but it’s clear her patience is wearing thin under another deluge of supernatural fuckery. Abruptly she flushes, ducks her head as she runs delicate fingers through the strands of her copper hair several times in quick succession. “Sorry. That was rude, I know." She tries for a rueful smile that quickly crumples. "I didn’t mean it to come out quite like that. It’s just –” She puckers her lips and exhales with more force than strictly necessary. “It's been a very trying day.”

            “Don’t worry. Cas tends to have that effect on people,” Dean offers, keeps his eyes locked on the man in question, hoping he’ll take the freakin’ hint and take a hike. 

            “That must be unfortunate for you,” Emmanuel tells Future Cas with the upmost sincerity, and his words harken back to a rainy night trapped in the confining space of a stolen car cramped with said amnesiac angel and one meddling demon who never learned not to stick her nose where it didn’t belong. “I would offer my assistance, but personal matters such as those might be beyond my capabilities. I suggest watching  _Oprah_.” Aware of the raised eyebrows this recommendation receives, Emmanuel clears his throat self-consciously, casting shifty eyes around the table as he continues, a smidge defensively, “It’s one of Daphne’s favorite talk shows, and I've caught a few here and there. Miss Oprah is a sage of self-care, although I do fail to see how getting a free car improves the soul . . . I'm sure she has her reasons, though."

            Dean’s mouth pulls up into an indulgent half-smirk despite his better judgement, a rusty chuckle reverberating up his chest. “Ah, Manny. You never fail to disappoint.”

            “Thank you, Dean,” Emmanuel replies modestly, confused yet visibly pleased.

            Daphne tears her attention away Future Cas long enough to flicker her gaze between Emmanuel and Dean, lips pursed and expression inscrutable.

            “Yeah, Dean, thanks for that. You always say such the  _sweetest_  things,” Future Cas says with a throaty hum, unrepentant. “Even sweeter when you’re growling them in my ear while we –”

             Dean sucks in a sharp breath, and Future Cas’s bloodshot eyes flicker upwards to meet his, his self-satisfied smirk growing wider.

             “– _play_   _Twister_. Used to play all sorts of games, Dean and I," he continues, addressing the table at large. " _Especially_ when we went camping.”

            It’s blatantly pointed, slick with innuendo, and like most words that come out of Cas’s mouth they’re just this side of cryptic, possible to construe a half a dozen different ways. In all likelihood, Cas is just being his usual facetious self, acting out from sheer boredom (at least, Dean assumes it’s ennui, hard to tell what goes on in inner workings of Cas’s foggy head). But there’s something superior in that dim gaze that seems to hint at something more, in a  _Ha ha_ ,  _I know something you don’t_ sort of way.

             “You played Twister without the rest of us, Dean?” Emmanuel, bless his pure, too-literal heart, pipes up at just the right moment to divert everyone’s attention back to him and away from the scarlet blush breaking out across Dean’s face. Most importantly, it allows Dean to shove uncomfortable ideas away into unmarked boxes until he’s ready to examine them with closer scrutiny. Which will probably be never-ever-not-in-a-million-years. “If you had expressed interest yesterday, we would have made room for you.”

              Inwardly sighing, Dean musters up a reassuring smile for Emmanuel, the muscles in his face stretching tightly across his cheek bones from the forced action. “Sorry, buddy. Maybe next time.”

            “Oh, I’d  _love_  for Manny to join us,” Future Cas drawls, whiskey rough. He side-eyes Daphne, gaze doing an unmistakable once-over; he grins wolfishly. “Open invitation, beautiful.”

            Dean winces, just barely checks himself from scooching his chair away from Cas as he inwardly braces for the indignant squawk, the outraged rebuttal, but by some miracle from on high the blatant come-on seems to go right over Daphne’s head. Maybe the obliviousness to flirtation was a learned trait of Emmanuel’s.

            “I . . .” She blinks rapidly, glancing up at her completely exasperated-looking husband in askance. “Emmanuel . . . what?”

            Emmanuel deigns to hold his tongue, but for the first time in this tedious, fucked-up afternoon he looks a little less than placid, choosing instead to cast a withering frown at his doppelganger as he squeezes Daphne’s fingers tighter when their entwined hands rest on the top of the table.

            Castiel shifts in his seat until he can lean over and whisper uncertainly into Dean’s ear, “Are we still referring to a children’s game?”

            “Don’t worry about it,” Dean orders in a low aside, but he does kick the back of Future Cas’s calf in admonition, and if his petty jealousy has him landing the blow a little harder than necessary, well then, them there’s the breaks.

             “You see, my striking tiger-lily, I’m all for welcoming, and most especially  _nurturing_ , a strong sense of community spirit –  _Hrgh_! . . . M-maybe another time, then,” Cas grits out calmly, though his voice is a little strained as he shoots a disgruntled look at Dean, who picks at his fingernails studiously.

             The table rattles slightly as Castiel’s hands come down hard on its illuminated surface with a solid thump as he pushes himself forward to see over the top of Dean’s head, presumably the better to be able to glower belligerently at his doppelganger. “What even is the  _point_  of you being here?” he demands tersely, voice tight with exasperation. “Perhaps it has slipped your keen notice, but we’re currently in the middle of something rather important, so if you could kindly  _be on your way_  –”

             “Gonna have to stop you there, cousin,” Future Cas interrupts before Castiel can get any more red in the face, holding up a silencing hand as he takes the final bite of his banana, disgusting end bits and all. He flings the empty peel into a trash bin across the room with impressive aim, proceeding to then lick the sticky tips of his fingers with a diligence that speaks of years spent living off carefully controlled rations (and more than a night or two spent hungry). Or maybe it’s just been a long time since Cas has had a piece of fruit. 

              “.  . .  _And_?” Castiel presses when Cas’s silence only stretches on, his imperious eyebrow inching closer and closer to lodging permanent residence at the top of his forehead, just below his dark-haired fringe.

            Cas glances up, face blank. “Hmm . . .? Oh. Nothing. I just wanted to see if I could get you to shut the hell up.”

             Castiel’s nostrils flare dangerously, and Dean whips a hand up to hover in front of Castiel’s chest in a feeble measure to restrain Castiel from vaulting over him and throttling his clone. “ _You_  –”

            “Oh! But you know what?” Paying little heed to Castiel’s affronted scowl that promises death, Future Cas abruptly snaps his fingers, swiveling in his seat to point at Dean. “There was  _something_  I stopped by here to tell you.” He chuckles, unabashed. “That is until I started, uh . . . completely tripping balls. Heh.  _Totally_  slipped my mind. Sorry 'bout that.”

              “Yeah, well, you – Cas, Jesus, for the love of – settle down, you pointy-elbowed bastard – Cas, I mean _other-Cas_ , you can unload the doom and gloom after we wrap things up here,” Dean says, accompanied by a significant look at Daphne and Emmanuel, the pair looking on the squabble in perverse curiosity.

             “Sure sure, but I just thought you should know that when I was strolling by the dungeon, Bloody and Blasphemous was making one helluva racket –”

              “Daphne, are you feeling all right?”

              Emmanuel’s soft-spoken concern is just the excuse Dean needs to break his attention away from Cas, turn his focus on Daphne, trembling delicately in her chair.

            “No, no, I’m fine, Emmanuel, please don’t worry about me. Save your strength,” she pleads, begging off Manny’s proffered hand. “It’s just . . . My  _Lord_ , this is . . .” Shaking her head as she slumps forward enough for her forehead to fall into her open palm, she falls silent, the rest of the table watching her uneasily. They all startle at the high-pitched, slightly hysterical giggle Daphne emits, which prompts Emmanuel to rub a hand diligently up and down her back. “This is  _insane_. You’re him, you’re both of them, but you – can’t be. You just  _can’t_.”

             “Really?” Looking mildly disturbed, Future Cas pats up and down his chest distractedly. “Huh. You may be onto something, I  _am_  feeling distinctly less substantial than I did yesterday . . .  Must be the herbs.” He glances at Dean, nods appreciatively. “For a man who gives me so much grief about my recreational pursuits, you, my friend, keep stocked a very funky pantry. I approve.”

            The urge to introduce Dean's face to his palm is nigh undeniable. “Can’t friggin’ believe you’d – those were for  _spell work_ , genius. Like for summoning demons and shit. Not for curing your raging case of the munchies.”

             “Who said anything about eating them?” Cas actually has the gall to scoff at Dean, expression condescendingly patient. “I’ve been mucking about on Earth with you and a ragtag band of hunters for a few years now, Dean; suffice it is to say I’ve learned my way around a hunter’s supply kit. You’d be surprised the hallucinogenic effects you can tease out of a handful of goofer dust.” His smile grows wider as his eyes glaze over with the ghost of a past memory. “Oh, man. There was this one time I spent three days locked up in my cabin with a whole batch of the stuff, came out babbling Rilke’s poetry in Sumerian and wearing my pants on my head, vivid swirls of lapis lazuli paint hand-painted across half my body. My hands had become the paintbrush, puppetered by my mind as it turned my body into a breathing canvas.” He chuckles in fond reminiscence, the sound so un-Castiel-like that it sends shivers up Dean's spine. He continues drolly on, “I was also naked as a newborn infant but I think I got that way before I started . . .  Missed a supply run because of that trip. Oh, man – other-you really  _reamed_  me for that one.”

            Dean just shakes his head in (only partially amused, mostly annoyed) disbelief, scrubbing a frustrated palm through the rough growth accumulating on the side of his jaw. “Just – Nope. You know what? I don’t care. This one’s on you. Don’t come running to me when you end up a puff of smoke or – or a purple-spotted frog or somethin’.”

            “If only we were so lucky,” he thinks he hears Castiel mutter mutinously under his breath at the same time Future Cas responds with a solemn, “I think I’d make a very dignified amphibian. Besides, all you would have to do was kiss me and I’d return to normal, your highness.” He makes a show of fluttering his eyelashes ostentatiously at Dean.

             “ _See_? This – this is what I mean!” Daphne exclaims suddenly, and Dean, having already forgotten about all about her, truth be told, jumps in his seat, and after surreptitiously checking to make sure no one has noticed his momentary lapse in masculinity, drags his attention back to her before Cas can pull it away again. “You two couldn’t be more different than a sinner is to a saint –”

            “I’ll try not to be offended by that,” Future Cas drawls out dryly. 

            “–and yet, here you both are,” she continues as though he hadn’t spoken, tone incredulous. “Existing.” Her jade eyes, made vivid by how bloodshot they are, remain unblinking as her gaze flickers between the former angels, fingers playing with the delicate gold cross hanging from her neck. “Yesterday, I would have deemed it a miracle wrought by God’s hands . . .  but today you ask me to believe some – some,” she flounders for the right word, “tacky piece of costume jewelry did this?”

            “Yep. Like I said – _magic_.” Dean wiggles his fingers in a spooky fashion. “Probably of the godless, heathen variety. Created under a full moon with a virginal blood sacrifice –”

            “He’s – He’s joking, of course. Dean here has a very, erm, _unique_ brand of humor; it takes some getting used to,” Emmanuel jumps in hastily when Daphne’s eyes have reached the size silver dollars, and as he does he shoots a look at Dean that, although it lacks heat (Dean very much doubts Emmanuel has a single mean or vengeful bone in his body), still carries a note of caution. “Don’t you, Dean?”

             Beside Dean, Castiel is glaring at him with a censoring look, the same kind of look that Dean has received once or twice from Krissy. It was the _Oh my God, you're such a dweeb_ _,_ _please stop_  sort of look, and while it's kind of amazing how similar the expression of painful embarrassment can be on the faces of a trillions-years-old angel and a teenage girl, it's not as fun eliciting that look from Cas as it is from Krissy. Probably 'cause Cas has a way of making Dean feel like the child. 

             “Yep, that’s me,” Dean grits out through the fakest smile he’s ever whipped up. He slumps into the back of his chair, ready for this charade to be over. “Always a kidder.”

             Completely immune to the snark, Emmanuel slips Dean a smile of thankful relief, which of course makes Dean feel like an utter shitheel. “But honestly, this spell, this situation – it’s really not all that bad as Dean made it out to be, Daph,” Emmanuel says earnestly, missing how Dean’s mouth screws up at the casual way the nickname for his wife is slipped in unobtrusively, like it’s second nature. “I understand this is a lot to take in all in one day, I went through the same thing myself not too long ago, but . . .” Emmanuel pauses – no, hesitates – for a heartbeat, chest rising and falling beneath his cardigan as he inhales a bracing breath through his nose before continuing. “Do you think it any worse than discovering I’m a being of celestial origin? Angels and magic, it’s all rather exciting, I think. It certainly outstrips all our previous theories.” His dry chuckle is horribly forced, and the smile never quite manages to reach his eyes, the skin surrounding them tight as the closely watches his wife. Dean can tell he’s holding his breath.

              Seeing the desperation in his bearing, only in that moment does Dean truly get how much Emmanuel needs Daphne, his wife, the person he’d depended on for nearly a year, to not abandon him in this moment. It’s like when Dean caught a glimpse of them holding hands: a private intimacy he has no place in, a part of Cas’s life forever separate from Dean. The jealousy is stirs in Dean as ugly, as is the unfamiliar possessiveness.

             But if Daphne were to leave Emmanuel hanging now, Dean thinks that somehow that would be worse.

              It’s seems neither of them had reason to worry, however; Daphne’s wary expression clears as though wiped clean and the first ray of light peeks through when she peeks up through her eyelashes at Emmanuel, eyes soft with a devotion bordering on reverence.

             “Actually, that just might be the only thing out of all this that I have no trouble believing,” she replies with quiet conviction. “I always knew you were special, Emmanuel.” She then muses thoughtfully, “I suppose I should be thankful then. All this brought you back to me.”

            “Yes,” Manny agrees with a gentle dip of his head, gaze warm and gentle. “That it did.”

            Biting his bottom lip, Dean squirms uneasily in his seat, averting his gaze; somehow _this_ \- this sweetness, this familiarity - is worse than if they were ripping each other clothes off in from of him, and if he could, he would bolt from his seat and leave the room, escape the picture of apple pie domestic bliss presented before him like a cruel tease. If he could, he would run back to his room and lock the door behind him, paw through his private stash until he finds that bottle of Johnnie Walker he’s been saying for an emergency such as this, and then drink until he can’t feel a goddamn thing, until Daphne leaves and takes Emmanuel away with her forever.

            But . . . if he could, Dean would also _not_ leave. If he could, Dean would reach across the table and take Emmanuel’s face in his hands, yank him forward until their lips were pressed together close enough to taste  – because now he knows, now he _knows_ –  until he could devour him in a kiss that had more passion in each hot breath than his ice princess wife had in her entire body, bite and lick into his mouth until Emmanuel understood where that unnamed longing he’d mentioned came from, kiss him long enough so that when Dean pulled back to suck another lungful of air it would no longer be Emmanuel staring from behind those blue eyes but _Castiel_.

            “Dean . . . are you feeling all right?”

            Jolted from la-la land back to the here and now, Dean startles badly enough for his knee to hit the table, blinking as he fights a sudden wave of dizziness until he can see Emmanuel in front of him, peering closely at Dean in concern (unlike Daphne, whose frown is closer to a scowl, irritated probably for stealing her husband’s attention away from her, hell if Dean knows).

            “What? Oh, um, yeah, man,” Dean replies quickly after an internal shake. His sneaks a look at Castiel, who is also watching Dean closely, frowning with worry. To his right, Future Cas snickers softly, and oh God, Dean is sure that, somehow, he knows what had been going on in Dean’s head. “I’m peachy keen. I just . . . uh.” Dean casts around for a change of topic. “You mentioned . . . theories, I think?” He asks out with feigned interest, his mouth dry and tasting of sawdust, “What about?”

            “Oh, nothing, really, just . . .” Emmanuel shrugs, a barely visible, bird-like movement of his shoulders. “Idle musings on who I was . . . well, for simplicity’s sake, Daphne and I dubbed it _Before_.”

             Dean snorts. “. . . Oh, you’re being serious? That’s . . . creative. Did _Daph_ come with that one?”

            “No, I did,” Emmanuel answers, oblivious as ever. He smiles to himself, drawing abstract patterns on the table with the tip of his finger. “It was just a game of sorts we would play sometimes, coming up with ideas on who I used to be, and although some were undoubtedly far-fetched, nothing so fantastical as actual divinity.”

             “Hmm,” Castiel hums, an identical close-mouth smile gracing his face as he looks down at his map. “I remember that.”

            “Let me guess,” Dean says, tapping a finger against his chin. The tension in his body has eased off if only by a marginal amount, and he even finds himself just a tad genuinely interested now. The ache still remains, however, tightening whenever Dean forgets to look away and accidentally catches a glimpse of Emmanuel’s and Daphne’s entwined hands. “You thought you were a Martian, didn’t you? Or maybe lost royalty?” He raises his eyebrows and leans forward with a grin. “CIA agent, deep undercover?”

               “Gracious, no,” Emmanuel laughs outright, full white smile bright against his tanned face. “Nothing nearly as creative as that, although I admire your imagination, Dean.” If he tries hard enough, Dean can imagine that shy smile directed at him is more than just appreciative, that it’s fond. Familiar. A secret meant for him and him alone.

               “Come on, Manny, you gotta have more to dish than that,” he cajoles, interest waxing despite himself, voice too low, too husky, to be mistaken as merely casual. He needs to reign this in before Daphne ends up spraying him with pepper spray, or worse, Castiel notices. He clears his throat as best he can, attempts to speak a little louder. “ _Spill_."

               “Well, I . . . If you insist.” Smiling shyly, Emmanuel ducks his head to as he smoothes a hand across the silhouette of North America backlit by the glow of the map table, his hand eventually coming to rest on what is roughly the location of Colorado. “I . . . Please don’t misunderstand me, Daphne and I didn’t just spend all our time trying to put an official name to my face. It would have been nice to know, of course, but . . . it was hard to miss what I didn’t remember. Anyways, I was content with my life, as I told you before. I found purpose in my work and it gave me a certain amount of peace, the same way hunting the creatures that would hurt others makes you happy.”

              “Happy might be a bit of a stretch,” Dean deadpans. “Throw in a bacon cheeseburger and six-pack and you'll land somewhere in the general vicinity of happy.”

              “That too,” Emmanuel allows, lips twitching. “There were lulls, of course, long days where there never seemed to be enough to occupy myself with. It was those times that I allowed my mind to wander, trying to remember my old life. Laying in our bed, staring up at the wall, trying so hard to recall a name, a familiar face . . . But nothing ever came of it,” he continues pensively, expression a little wistful. “Nothing tangible, at least. Eventually I gave up, and resigned myself to hoping that, whoever I had been, that I had been unimportant, alone, so that no one would feel my absence."

              “Didn’t quite work out that way,” Dean mutters bitterly, although he immediately regrets it when Emmanuel gives him a pained look. Well, whatever, Dean felt pretty _pained_ himself all those months he’d spent mourning Castiel, _grieving_ him, drinking himself to near liver failure while his remaining family crumbled around him, all while Emmanuel was living it up in Colorado. _You were needed, and you were missed, and yet you couldn’t be bothered to do a little bit of background digging!_ he wants to scream into Emmanuel’s face, but the words never quite find their way to his mouth.

              Dean steadfastly ignores Castiel, who is futilely trying to catch Dean’s eye. No way is he opening that can of words between them right now when he already has enough on his plate.

              Thankfully, in a rare moment of serendipity, Future Cas chooses that moment to pipe up before Dean can say any more incredibly stupid things.

             “Ahhh, I didn’t hear that you’re now in the know, Manny. Welcome to the family,” he congratulates with an over-exaggerated dip of his head, though his grin is mocking, tone sarcastic. “Flying the Mile High Club all this time, and you didn’t even realize it. Lucky, lucky Manny . . .”

            There’s no mistaking the bitterness that hangs over Future Cas like a noxious cloud, reaching out with grasping tendrils to make everyone in its vicinity supremely uncomfortable, even if they don’t understand the story behind Cas’s jab. Dean knows, though, even if he wishes he didn’t: _I used to belong to a much better club._

             It’s of course at that moment that the off-kilter universe that Dean’s stuck living in decides that now would be the perfect time to have naïve Daphne ask Cas, “Oh. You’re an angel, too, then?”

             The evenness of her tone is not enough to mask her surprise and dubiousness, her gaze flickering over his unkempt (which is certainly putting it mildly) appearance. Even with sickly Castiel in his bathrobe sitting near enough for comparison, Cas appears as far from divinity as one can be, looking like he just rolled out of a dumpster. Not exactly Michael Landon-esque.

            Cas gives her a tight smile, and when his lips pulls back to show his teeth, it’s more like how when a wolf or other large predator bares its fangs before it goes for the jugular. “Yeah,” he laughs. “Believe it or not, I am. As you can see –” he gestures a hand at himself “– They’ve really cut back on quality over the last few years.”

             “Indeed,” is all she says after a moment, lips pursed in a thin line.

             “Well, lucky for you, I haven’t been a full angel in years. Neither is good ole Castiel over here,” Cas says jovially, reaching around Dean to knock his fist into Castiel’s immovable shoulder. “He’s just as impotent as I am. No gas in the tank, no spark in the engine.”          

             “ _You Fell_?” Daphne's hand flies back to her little gold cross, knuckles white as she clutches tight. Lips pale, she whispers in the hushed tones of the ultra-superstitious, “Like the Devil?”

              Wiggling his hand back and forth, Cas makes an _ehhhh_ sound. “Not per se, not in the way you’re thinking, not like Milton envisioned it and scribbled down on some scraps of paper. I simply stopped  . . . showing up to class, as it were. Didn’t feel like toing the company line anymore.” His gaze flickers to Dean’s, a barely perceptible smirk quirking his mouth and deepening the lines near his eyes. “So I cast my lot in with Dean. And the rest of humanity,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. One long-fingered hand dips into his pocket to fish out a large rectangle of paper and he begins folding it. “Losing my grace came soon after, gradually, drop by pearly drop, until I was as human as any of you. When the rest of the angels buggered out is was simply a matter of kicking me in the balls when I was already down.”

              Daphne wrinkles her nose at Cas’s crass language, but still she presses. “But I don’t _understand_. How . . . how could God _allow_ any of this? Fallen angels are sent to Hell – it says so in –”

              “Your ‘holy book’ written nearly two thousand years ago by a bunch of misogynistic goat fuckers who were stoned out of their gourds on frankincense and myrrh?” The remark has its intended effect, and Future Cas’s smile only grows wider at Daphne’s scandalized gasp. “Eh. It gets a few things right, I’ll gave it that much, even though a lot gets lost in translation and skewed by aforementioned sexist views. But to be fair, there’d never been an angel before then dumb enough to rebel against Heaven only to side with humanity, so I can understand your confusion.”

              “What he means to say is, there’s never been an angel like _Cas_ before,” Dean points out, unable to sweep away the shard of pride in his voice.

              “Yippie for me,” Cas says blandly.

               Daphne, however, is not convinced. “But God wouldn’t –” she doggedly insists.

               “Lady, haven’t you been listening?” Future Cas cuts her off, exasperated now. Easygoing as Cas may be, it doesn’t seem he has much patience for arguing Christian dogma with a human who didn’t even know angels existed until today. “Here: let me come up with a shortlist of things your ‘lawful’ God didn’t do: He did nothing when the angels decided to let the Apocalypse happen – yes, it did happen –  just as He did nothing to stop Lucifer from breaking free from his Cage. He did, however, allow the Morning Star to kill millions of people within the course of a single year. Billions within five if you count my timeline. My rebellion probably wasn’t a blip on his radar.” Cas’s voice has gone quiet, somber, more lucid than Dean’s seen him yet, and it scares the living hell out of him. Same goes for Daphne, if the pallor of her face is any indication. “I don’t know if He was watching and couldn’t be fucked to lift an almighty finger, and I don’t know if He skipped town and was sitting on a deserted beach in Bora Bora wearing Bermuda shorts and sipping Mai Tai out of a coconut as he watched the world burn down to the ground, but all I do know is he couldn’t give a rat’s ass what we do with ourselves.”

               “I disagree.” Castiel’s voice is no less quiet, but it’s hotter, burning with his fierce determination as he defiantly holds his doppelganger’s condescendingly amused gaze. “It was God who brought us back after the archangel Raphael smote us. And me again at Stull Cemetery. Emmanuel too in a Colorado river. I make no claim to understand His motives, but it could have only been Him. I’m sure of it.”

               “Maybe God has bigger plans for us,” Emmanuel suggests hesitantly, clearly struggling to keep up with the conversation.

               “What can I say? Our old man had a sick sense of humor. Have you ever seen a platypus?” Future Cas says dismissively. “Face it, cousins, we’re just Dad’s playthings. Besides, Dean agrees with me, don’t you, Dean?”

               Three pairs of eyes (four if you count Daphne) turn to stare expectantly at him.

               Dean throws his hands up in surrender. “You guys all know what I think about the big man upstairs, but since I rather have Cas not be dead, ehhhhh, let’s chalk it up as even until the next Apocalypse.”

               Castiel immediately shoots a smug look at Cas, who only shrugs indifferently, turning his attention back to the rolling between his fingers which is now crinkled into fine lines. “Suit yourself.”

               “God was the one who brought Emmanuel to me,” Daphne says quietly but firmly, working the ring on her finger back and forth. "That’s good enough for me.”

                Dean catches Future Cas rolling his eyes, but for once he blessedly keeps his trap shut. Underneath the table, his leg begins to jiggle in an agitated, anxious staccato pattern, his fingers working furiously over the rolling paper, now torn in several places. Cas is starting to look like those grizzled old war vets Dean sometimes sees down at the local bar, bouncing on their bar stool as they await their drink. Not letting himself think about it, Dean reaches out to place a hand on Cas’s knee. Though Cas jolts from the initial contact, a moment passes before he settles down. Their eyes meet. Something like surprise, like gratitude, like fondness, passes across Future Cas's face, and it eases the tightening in Dean's gut.  

              _Hells yeah, there's some progress for ya_ , Dean self-congratulates himself, squeezing Cas's hand. It's only then that it finally occurs to Dean that maybe Cas didn't wander in here to make a nuisance out of himself, but perhaps because he needed the comfort he was incapable of asking for -

              Then that damned impish smirk reappears - the one that is so un-Castiel-like it makes Dean feel like he's looking into a mirror and seeing himself, the one Dean _hates_  like nothing else - and Cas flips his palm so that Dean's hand is now trapped beneath his before dragging their entwined hands up the thin layer of his pants towards the vee of his legs, destination unmistakable. Scowling blackly, Dean rips his hand away, the back of his neck flushed with furious embarrassment, and he turns away to focus his attention back on whatever Daphne is saying, pointedly ignoring the silent chuckles he can feel emanating from Cas.

              _Stupidstupidstupid_ , he berates himself. 

             Unaware of . . . whatever it was that just passed between Dean and Cas, Daphne’s gaze sizes up Castiel next, scrutinizing him. She still hasn't released the white-knuckle grip on her cross. “You said you Fell too . . . ?”

            Castiel bows his head, lips pulling back to form a flat grimace. “Like him, I too rebelled, but events played out much differently for me, and my disobedience initially payed off. Quite handsomely, you could even say." Castiel smiles, but Dean can see the bitter edge to it. "So well, in fact, that I returned to Heaven with a new position of power - and with it a dangerously inflated ego. It wasn't too long before my good intentions begat deadly consequences, and I was punished severely for my hubris, for which you, Emmanuel, unfairly suffered for."

             "I feel no ill-will towards you, Castiel. Without you, I wouldn't be here at all," Emmanuel says, quite matter-of-factly.

              "True that," Dean concurs. He tells Daphne, "Cas is making it out to be worse than it really was -" ("What? No, I'm not!") - "No, Cas, listen, tou did the best you could at the time. Both of you did," he adds, making sure to meet Future Cas's unimpressed gaze.

             "Be that as it may, to atone for my mistakes," Castiel continues, no longer able to look Daphne fully in the eye, his gaze having drifted to some middle distance, "I became desperate, careless and short-sighted, and when I saw what I thought was a chance to right the wrongs I had caused, I jumped at the chance with out a second thought. Simply put, ended several months ago, I made a series of poor choices, put my faith in the wrong person, and was tricked out of my grace."

            “Oh,” Daphne breathes once she recovers from the info dump, still a little overwhelmed. “I’m - I'm sorry. It didn’t . . . hurt, did it?”

            “Er, well yes, it was actually quite excruciating, especially when my wings caught on fire as I plummeted back to Earth.” Dean slaps a hand to his face. “Oh, I mean, no, no it wasn’t.”

            Daphne doesn’t seem the slightest bit reassured by the too-wide smile Castiel offers her, but she seems to find it best to pretend she never heard that first bit. Her gazes reluctantly returns to Future Cas, who although has thankfully gotten his twitches under control, is now slumped on the table with his knuckles pressing red marks into his unshaven cheek, expression of utter boredom plastered on his face.

            “So if Castiel is who Emmanuel was before, what does that make you?” she asks timidly, thought she is wholly unsuccessful at hiding the curiosity in her intent gaze.

            “Hopefully, the man he’ll never be,” Cas answers with blunt honesty, the deadness of his tone wrapping a band of pressure tightly around Dean's chest. The smirk aimed at him does nothing to assuage the feeling of dread. “That is, if Tweedle-Dean here and Tweedle-Sam can manage not to piss off any more archangels in the future.”

            “So are there others then?” Daphne guesses, fingers coming up to twirl at a lank of her hair, and the way she says it, oh-so-casually, like she doesn't really care if she gets an answer or not, tips Dean off to the fact that Daphne actually wants to know very, very much. Why she cares so much, is something he's going to have to figure out for himself.

             At this Emmanuel nudges her gently. “What is it, honey?” she asks, tone softer, and Manny gestures somewhere behind Dean, expression solemn. She follows his gaze. “What is . . . Oh!" she exclaims, surprised and eyes round as coins. “Hello. Who . . . Can you tell me your name?”

             Dean looks over his shoulder just in time to see a curious gaze peek out from behind one of the stone columns framing the entranceway to the library, body partially-concealed, one slippered foot poised as if to slip cautiously forward. He only manages to catch a glimpse of Crazy Cas for a scant two seconds before the angel startles at the unexpected attention, scampering away in an erratic gust of wind that causes the bunker electricity to surge and the lights to flicker crazily overhead.

            “Ohmy _god_!” Daphne gasps, actually jumping from her chair to stare in amazement at the pocket of air that once contained Crazy Cas. “He just _disappeared_! Where did he even –?” She doesn’t finish here sentence, still staring open-mouthed.

             “Yeah, he does that . . . Huh. Usually he manages to bust a few out,” Dean says, looking up at the lights overhead. “You wouldn’t believe how many lightbulbs we’ve gone through this week – Hey. Where you going?” Dean calls out to Future Cas, startled to see him slipping out from his chair.

             Cas only spares a glance at Dean over his shoulder as he mosies on out of the war room, heading for the library and presumably the inner belly of the bunker. “Do I really need a reason?” he shrugs.

            “You gonna go check on Froot-Loops?” Dean asks anyway.

             “Actually, I was gonna go ask Misha if he wanted to light one up with me,” he answers, throwing a cheeky grin over his shoulder that doesn’t touch his eyes. "Don't wait up for me." And just like that’s he’s gone as suddenly as he appeared, like a single fallen leaf caught in a gust of wind, and Dean would be lying if his shoulders don’t ease dramatically, the tension draining from him.

            Dean turns back around. “Annnnnndddd he’s gonna raid the pantry, isn’t he?”

            “He seems very troubled,” Emmanuel observes sadly. “And very alone.”

            “People only get that way because they want to, Manny,” Dean replies gruffly, aware that Castiel is peering closely at him with an inscrutable expression.

             "I still can't believe you and him are the same person," Daphne says distantly. "What happened to him?"

             "To put it succinctly," Castiel discloses heavily, "a lot of shit."

             "Do you think I could possibly be of service?" Manny offers hesitantly.

            "I don't really think there's anything we can do for him," Dean says honestly, clenching and unclenching his hand.

            “What about that other one?” Daphne asks, now back in her seat and returning to her Twenty Questions. “Who was he? Why didn’t he stay?”

            “Oh, that guy? That there was, well, _also_ Cas,” Dean says, deciding on the spot that attaching the Crazy tag will just kick up another one hundred questions that Daphne really doesn’t need to know. “He’s just . . . shy.”

            Beside him, Castiel looks at his lap, mouth pulled into a flat line.  Surreptitiously, Dean sneaks a hand to rub soothingly at Castiel’s lower back, knowing that at least here, his efforts will be appreciated.

            "So . . . there are a lot of . . . a lot of other you's, huh?" Daphne starts out slowly, fiddling with wedding ring again, and she's doing that thing again, the thing where she deliberately drags out her question, already five steps ahead and gearing up for the question she really wants to ask. It's takes everything in Dean not to snap at her to spit it out.

              "Yeah, around eight," Dean answers. _Or there was . . ._

             She spins the ring faster around her finger. "Including . . . James Novak?"

             Dean blinks. Just when he thought there were no more surprises to be had today. 

              Castiel leans closer, peering hard at Daphne. "How did you come by that name?"

              Daphne bites her lip, debating, before leaning over to fish something out of her purse. "After you left with Dean, Emmanuel, I waited for you . . . but when I finally realized you weren't coming back, not on your own at least, I tried to find you. I made missing persons flyers using our wedding photo, spent weeks hanging them up, went as far as Denver one week. Passed them out to everyone at church when they asked me where you were and when you would be coming back. They were all . . . very sympathetic, of course." She says this all briskly, like it's all just details of someone else's life, but Dean catches the shivery tremble to her voice, the pain that flashes in her eyes and comes from picking at old wounds, from grief untold and too personal too share. An image flashes in Dean's mind, Emmanuel's pale face and puppy eyes staring out at people from the back of a milk carton, a _Have you seen me?_ written below. "I filed a report with the police, but they were more or less useless if I'm being perfectly honest, didn't have the faintest idea where do start a search for a missing person that didn't have a social security number of a known date of birth." She straightens up, her phone now clutched tight in her hand. "I had to eventually take the advice from my cousin and hire a private investigator. What I should have done the first time," she acknowledges to Dean with a apologetic look.

              _There would been nothing of Emmanuel left to find_ , Dean thinks grimly with old regret, _only a comatose Castiel in a psych ward._

 Though his eyes are sympathetic, Emmanuel says nothing to interrupt Daphne's story _,_ absorbing her account of life without him eagerly.

              "Many weeks passed with nothing to come of them, and my faith began to wane that I would ever find, though I prayed every night," Daphne continues softly, fiddling with something on her phone. "Then Sylvia - my PI - sent me an email, with the contact information for a family living in Chicago." 

               It takes a second for it to click why that bit of information sounds familiar, but when it does, it has Dean scrambling from his seat to all-but vault across the table, slipping behind Daphne to look at the screen of her phone.

               "Well, I'll be damned," Dean breathes. "Cas, man, you gotta take a look at this."

                 Castiel joins him, and when he sees the screen, he utters a very human-sounding gasp, jerking forward for a better look. "Is that . . .?"

                "Yeah."

               On the screen is a picture of Amelia and Claire Novak, looking very much the same as they did on Claire's Facebook page that Dean had been scrolling through with Jimmy, though Claire's golden hair is not as long in the photo. Daphne is also in the picture, with her arm around the Novaks, all three women smiling at the camera and the unseen photographer. Claire has her hand raised in greeting, boldly meeting the viewer's eye.

               "They wanted me to show this picture in case I ever found Jimmy, just as they promised to show it if they ever found Emmanuel," Daphne explains.

                "Who are they?" Emmanuel asks softly, edging closer in his seat to see.

              "Claire," Castiel breathes, his hand inching closer like he wants to touch the screen, and the reverence in his voice is unmistakable, "and Amelia Novak. Jimmy's family . . . Claire's grown so much since I . . ." He trails off, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and Dean casts a suspicious glance his way, gaze darting away when he sees Castiel's eyes glassy with unshed tears. 

                "Meeting them was such an expected miracle," Daphne says, still smiling. "We had so much to discuss. After I explained them I was looking for my husband and showed them his picture, Amelia told me how _her_ husband James Novak disappeared in for a year before turning up in 2008, saying that an angel named Castiel had possessed him before disappearing again. She didn't think I'd believe her, then I told her how my husband and I had been attacked by demons."

                 "Bet that was awkward," Dean mutters. 

                 "Not really," Daphne says. "It was . . . comforting, having someone who understood. Having someone to talk to. " 

                 "Have you seen them recently?" Castiel asks, eyes still glued to the screen.

                "That was the last time I saw Amelia," Daphne says, putting her phone back into her purse, "though we've managed to keep in touch through emails in the like. I was actually going to give Amelia a call to night, let her know I've found Emmanuel. I'm sure she'll want to hear from James too . . .?" Daphne adds pointedly, looking at Dean in askance.

                Shit. _Shiiiiitttt_. "Jimmy's, uh . . . not here anymore," Dean says carefully, watching as Daphne's face falls. "He, uh . . ." Ah, fuck, he's just gonna have to go for it, since he can't have Daphne giving Amelia Novak the false hope that she'll ever see her husband again. The web of lies Dean finds himself tangled in tighten further around his neck like a noose. "The spell took him away."

                 "Took him away? What does that even mean?" Daphne asks bluntly, perhaps a tad exasperated.

                  Aware of the confused look Emmanuel is shooting at him, Dean answers evenly, "Still working that out, but it seems Jimmy was only here long enough clear up some unfinished business." Never let it be said that Dean's power to bullshit on a dime is nothing short of extraordinary. 

                  Daphne goes very still. "Could that happen to Emmanuel?"

                   "I don't care," Emmanuel answers firmly before Dean can. "I already knew I was living on borrowed time. I just want to make the most of it while I still can."

                   "So what do I tell the Novaks, then?"

                 This Dean can do. "Tell them Jimmy loved them, loved Amelia, loved Claire, with everything he had," Dean answers sincerely. "That he was so damn proud of Claire and that -" Dean swallows past the thickness in his throat, knowing this is the last thing he can ever do for Jimmy. "He'll be waiting for them. Tell them that, will ya?" 

                  "I will," Daphne promises, taking Emmanuel's hand. "Emmanuel and I will both tell them." 

              “And on that note,” Emmanuel says abruptly, turning to his wife. “Daphne, I was hoping you would accompany me on a short walk to stretch our legs, if you find yourself amendable.”

              "Oh!" Daphne blinks, a little surprised by Emmanuel's sudden enthusiasm. 

               “Everything alright there, Manny?” Dean’s pretty proud of how steady the question comes out, nearly passing for nonchalant, given how he watches Emmanuel like a hawk.

               “Yes, of course, Dean.” Emmanuel smiles reassuringly at him, unaware of the tenseness of Dean’s body, the anxiety pouring out of him. “There are simply some . . . matters with her I would like to discuss.” Abruptly, his forehead creases with worry. “You don’t mind, do you? We wouldn’t be going far, just up the stairs for some privacy.”

              “Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t, Emmanuel,” Daphne cuts in as she collects her coat from the backrest of her chair, very carefully not meeting Dean’s gaze, even as she adds, “You understand, right, Dean?”

              “’Course,” Dean replies shortly, because there’s no possible way he can object without coming off as an unreasonable ass and scaring Manny off further. This is it. Dean had his chance to convince Emmanuel to stay, and instead he blew it by being a petty dick. Story of his life, really. “Do what you gotta do, buddy,” he tells Manny.

               Dean must not be coming off as studiously disinterest as he thought, because Emmanuel perks his head up, worrying at his bottom lip as he stares intently at him. “Dean . . .”

               Whether on purpose or pure accident, Daphne interrupts, speaking shyly to Cas. “Well, Castiel, it was certainly an . . . edifying experience. Meeting you, I mean,” Daphne adds hastily, blushing pink at her brief slip-up. “It’s not every day a girl meets a real, live angel. Or for that matter, her husband’s alter ego.”

               “Yes, I agree,” Castiel answers earnestly. “Luckily the use of time travel is a highly restricted, and most individuals are barred from moving through time in any way other than a linear forward motion. Otherwise, this type of occurrence would be far more common. Paradoxes would abound, chaos would ensure, you know, that sort of thing.” He flicks a confused glance at Dean when he bumps his shoulder pointedly against Cas’s. “Oh. Erm, apologies. I’m still trying my hand at being human – what I meant was, it was nice to finally meet you, Daphne, and to thank you for all you’ve done for me, for helping me get back to Dean.” He smiles gummily at Dean, who only ducks his head to scratch at the heated skin at the back of his neck. “I only wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

               “No, please don’t be sorry,” Daphne exclaims, patting at his hands clasped around hers. “You don’t know how much this meant to me. I always wanted to meet the man Emmanuel was before I met him, I just never thought I’d get the chance.”

              “Everything you’d hoped it would be?” Dean asks, sincere curiosity getting the better of him.

              “Well, I definitely wasn’t disappointed,” she says shyly, and Castiel practically beams.

             “Thank you, Daphne,” he says softly. “For everything. Safe travels, wherever that may be.”

             She smiles graciously at him, but falters (nearly imperceptibly) when he gazes moves on to Dean. “Dean, I know we . . .” She lets slip an awkward laugh, ducking her head. “Well, to say we got off on the wrong foot would be a bit of an understatement, but . . .” She looks and meets his eyes steadily. “I am in your debt, I know that. You saved me from that demons, and Emmanuel as well.”

              “Yeah, but I was just doing my job,” Dean says, not trying to be modest, just a little confused and perhaps a little uncomfortable by the non-hateful look she’s giving him. Civility is new ground between Dean and Daphne.  

             “Be that as it may, I’m still grateful, and while I know I have no right to ask any favors of you, if I may . . . could I ask one request from you?”

             Dean shrugs, completely lost now. “Shoot.”

             Daphne’s mouth pulls up in wry amusement. “Make sure you don’t lose him again?”

             Dean can’t help but inwardly flinch, the devastation written plainly on Castiel’s face when Dean unceremoniously booted him from the bunker flashing across the back of his eyes, but he recovers before anyone – except maybe Cas – notices, huffing a chuckle. “I will if you make sure that one over there doesn’t clunk himself on the head again.

             “Of course,” she agrees, looking up at Emmanuel to smile brightly at him, but strangely enough Emmanuel doesn’t seem to paying any attention, his gaze unfocused and his fingers playing with the ends of his cardigan again.

            “Well,” Dean says, mostly to himself, “I guess that’s it then.”

            “Yes, we should get going,” Daphne says. “Emmanuel?”

            Of course, it’s only as Daphne and Emmanuel rise from their seats, the latter helping Daphne into her blue coat, that Sam finally deigns to show up from wherever the hell he’s been holed up until the storm blew past, a few beer bottles tucked into the crook of his arm. In his hands is a single dark purple coffee mug with Garfield on the front saying something derisive about Mondays (Castiel’s favorite), a thick plume of steam rising from the liquid.

            “Hey, guys. Got the drinks.” He unnecessarily lifts the mug in presentation as though demonstrating he is in fact not lying, has been making tea this entire hour, and was absolutely positively not hiding in the kitchen. 

             “And exactly where the hell have you been?” Dean snaps in lieu of greeting. “China? You could have just gone to the grocery store in town if we were out.”

             “You guys wouldn’t believe how long it takes water to boil on that piece of junk stove,” Sam says sheepishly.

               “Yeah, and I’m sure you took the time to weight out the perfect amount of tea leaves too,” Dean scoffs.

              Sam opens his mouth like he’s thinking about making an issue out of Dean’s disdain of Sam’s tea-making craft, but then his gaze snags on the Allens, on Daphne with her coat back on and white silk gloves. “Hey, what’s this now? You’re not leaving already, are you? You practically just got here.”

              For a moment no one says anything, and, to Dean at least, it’s ominous. Like everyone knows the answer is yes but no one is willing to come out and admit it quite yet.

             “Emmanuel and I just need a minute alone to talk,” Daphne says finally. Despite her words, she steps forward and offers Sam her hand, which Sam accept after depositing his catch on the table. “Thank you for your hospitality, Sam, and . . . . sorry about the tea.” She offers a hesitant smile. “I’m sure it was wonderful.”

             “No, it’s fine. No problem at all,” Sam reassures her quickly, with a touch more enthusiasm than is believable, but Dean doubts Daphne hardly notices. “Thanks for stopping by,” he adds, like has all been one giant fucking barbecue party. Eventually Sam’s attention shifts from Daphne to Emmanuel, hovering behind her. “Oh, you’re going too, Emmanuel?” Sam asks in surprise, shooting a furtive glance at Dean as he does, one that clearly says, _You’re just gonna let him leave?_

             Dean just shrugs, a barely detectable shift of his shoulders.

             “Well, yes, of course,” Emmanuel replies slowly, a little confused. “We’ve spent all this time with Dean and Castiel, but now I need a moment with my wife.”

              “Yeah . . . yeah, ‘course. Of Course,” Sam says quickly, still glancing suspiciously between Dean and Emmanuel.

               Either oblivious to the undercurrent of tension running back and forth in the room (or just getting good at ignoring it), Emmanuel smiles once at Sam before turning to Daphne expectantly. “Are you ready?”

              “Yes, I . . . I suppose now is a good time as any. Dean, Sam. Castiel, erm, I mean, Cas. It was a pleasure meeting Emmanuel’s family.” Her eyes alight on Dean, guarded.

                For a moment, Dean is content to simply stare her down, but then Dean looks at Daphne, really looks at her. All this time, he’s been so _angry_ at her, convinced she had been some crazy housewife so thirsty for a husband she would marry whatever sap wondered into her path, but that isn’t what happened at all. Daphne isn’t Meg, like Dean had feared, she isn’t more interested in Cas’s good looks and his powers than she is in him. Daphne wasn’t hiding Dean in Colorado for her own selfish desires, and she didn’t drop him cause he stopped being useful to her. Daphne cared for him, because for whatever other faults she might have, she cared for Cas/Emmanuel when she could have left him at a hospital, and for that Dean will always be grateful. Daphne got it wrong, she isn’t indebted to him. Their indebted to each other, and it's time to set old grudges aside.

              Dean sticks his hand out, offers up a tiny grin. “Same here. Stop by anytime you like. I can grill a mean burger.”

              The surprise in those jade eyes is the tiniest bit gratifying, as is the hesitant smile and returning handshake. It's not friendship, but it is respect, and moreover it is mutual. And then just like that the Allens are leaving, exiting the war room to make their way to the staircase and up to the exit.

              Talking _my freckled ass_ , Dean thinks bitterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember new chapter coming in a week!!


	15. Unexpected Guests: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean. How very nice of you to join us. I was just patiently explaining to the rest of the little ants here that I don’t appreciate being shot at. It . . . irritates me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is heavy on the Emmanuel/Daphne (but I suppose it's more like one-sided Emmanuel/Daphne.) I just wanted to warn people, because I do think their would be strong feelings (platonic or romantic) after they spent nearly a year of their lives together. But don't worry, Emmanuel/Dean will have their bits too.

               “I suppose _you_ could still use one, huh?” Sam says to Dean where they hang back by the archway that leads into the library. The half-smile he offers Dean is rueful, sympathetic.  He hands Dean one of the beers, still slick with condensation. Sam is watching him carefully, swaying back on his heels like he wants to reach out and take Dean by the shoulder but is afraid Dean will bite his hand off if he tries. "Look at this way, at least this time they'll probably stay in touch. You can always give Manny a call if you wanna, I don't know, talk . . ." He sighs, wiggles the bottle. "Come on, Dean, there's nothing more we can do."

               Dean stares at the bottle. Sam's right, he should take it, sit back with Sam and Castiel in the library while he knocks a cold one down. He had a chance to convince Emmanuel to stay, and he blew it in typical Dean Winchester fashion, too caught up in petty grudges. 

               Castiel slides up beside Dean’s shoulder, the proximity sending electric sparks of awareness tingling down Dean's spine. “Dean?”

            _Have you ever felt a tugging in your soul? Not a calling, exactly. Like a cry out for help in the dark?_  Dean still doesn't know what Emmanuel had meant by his feeling, his so-called longing that had woken him up in the night. If it had simply been his memories of being Castiel clawing their way to the surface, or perhaps, maybe . . . just maybe something else. Perhaps there was still time to ask, just ask, nothing else. No harm in that, right . . .?

               Whipping around, Dean shoves the bottle into Castiel’s hands. “Hold onto this for me, will ya, Cas?” As the angel fumbles with the beer, Dean braces himself with one hand on Castiel’s shoulder. He looks up at Sam, sticks his hand out. 

              “Take off your shoes. I need your socks.” He clicks his fingers. “Make it snappy.”

               It’s a sign of how long Sam and Dean have been hunting together that Sam doesn’t waste time arguing (though Dean does get a snotty look for his brusqueness), just starts toeing off his boots. “You gonna explain _why_?”

              “This seems quite unsanitary,” Castiel remarks gruffly, scrunching his nose as he watches Sam reluctantly hands over his socks.

               Dean takes the socks, glad their only crime is a few holes and a mild odor (way worse has been found in Sam’s laundry, particularly after a ghoul hunt, or when he's had a the six-bean burrito at Biggerson's). He shoves the socks on his feet, leaning heavily against the pillar of strength that is Castiel. "No time to explain, gotta run or I'll miss 'em," and he just takes off running, bounding agilely across the floor on muted footsteps.

               “Dean – wait. What are you doing?” Sam hisses, caught in indecision between staring at in bafflement and chasing after him. “You’re not seriously gonna barge in on them?”

               “Just – I don’t know!” Dean calls over his shoulder, shoving a chair out of his way. “Cover for me!”

                Leaving his brother and Castiel and their non-audible skepticism behind, it’s next to nothing for Dean to sneak down the corridor on silent feet, cautiously making his way forward into the antechamber until he hears the voices.

                 “Wow, that was quite a climb.” A breathy laugh of surprise. “Do you suppose they built this place themselves, Emmanuel?”

                “I confessed my curiosity to Castiel about as much - he explained that the bunker was passed down to Sam and Dean from their grandfather, who was in a secret society himself back in the 40’s. A group of scholars that called themselves the Men of Letters, but they’ve since disbanded apparently. Castiel seemed reluctant to offer more details, and I didn’t feel it was my place to press.”

               A chuckle of wry humor. “A secret society, of _course_. I guess I should stop being so surprised . . . You wouldn’t know from the outside, but it’s actually very beautiful down here. Like you could just stand here and breathe in the magic and history.”

               Keeping his breathing shallow and back pressed tight to the wall, Dean creeps closer, hidden well by the shadows. He trains his gaze upwards, stopping only when he can see Emmanuel’s lean frame on the top of the landing, back to the railing. He can’t see her, but Dean can hear Daphne there too. 

                “Hmm. I know what you mean. I feel as though I could spend the next ten years of my life down here and still not learn everything about this new world, or my place in it.”

                 Dean bites his lip. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Emmanuel’s voice is warm, almost intimate; he clearly has no idea Dean is lurking around like some kind of creeper. At the moment Dean runs the very real chance of overhearing something he really, _really_ rather wouldn’t.

                 But Dean makes no move to leave, because now it's become more than a desire to question Emmanuel on his past. Maybe because he couldn’t pass up the chance to listen in on Emmanuel with his guard down, or maybe Dean truly is a masochist, and needs to prove to himself that Emmanuel truly is in love with Daphne, and that letting him go with her is the best course of action, settle that little niggling doubt in the back of his head . . . 

                 “What are those marks?”

                “Erm, Dean called them sigils, I believe. Glyphs imbued with power,” Emmanuel explains. He must be referring to the ones that outline the exit to the bunker, the ones Castiel inscribed himself. "They were placed around the entrances to keep us in –”

                “ _Keep_ you in?" Daphne's sharp voice pierces the gloom. You mean you're trapped here?”

                “Oh, no – it’s not what you think,” he adds hastily. “Well, I suppose it is, but – the others, I mean, the men who look like me and Castiel, not all of them are as nice as Cas . . . I’m sure I can have Dean or Castiel open them up, if I ask . . . If I needed to leave.”

               A beat of silence, wherein Dean can feel every agitated beat of his heart. He nervously licks his lips.

                “But you’re not going to ask them, are you?” Daphne asks mournfully.

 _Eh_? Dean thinks, sure he misheard. He dares to lean closer, straining his ear to catch every word.

                “No . . .  no, I don’t believe I will,” Emmanuel replies heavily. Muffled footsteps, a low sigh. “Daphne, you should know that I’ve had some time to think and despite why I called you to Kansas . . . I no longer believe returning to Colorado is my only course of action, nor the best one. After this, I'm going to ask Dean if I can remain here in Lebanon.”

                What.

               Scarcely daring to breathe, Dean eases closer until he can see the figures of both Emmanuel and Daphne at the top of the landing, the latter with her back to Dean but with her face turned away from Emmanuel, the former staring at her uneasily, shoulders slumped, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. When Emmanuel moves to ease a gentle hand around Daphne’s shoulder, putting him in Emmanuel’s line of sight were he to look down, Dean quickly slinks back in the shadows.

              “Daphne, please say something.”

             She makes a soft sound through her notice, not quite a scoff. “What do you want me to say, Emmanuel? That I think it’s a fine idea? Well, I don’t . . . not one bit.” A pause, then a sniffle that makes Dean shift uncomfortably from his hiding spot. “I know they were your family, Emmanuel - and I like Sam and Cas, and even Dean too, despite his rough edges - but that doesn’t mean they have your best interests at heart. If even half the things they’ve told us is true, then this world is incredibly dangerous. _They_ are incredibly dangerous. Deadly even. How could I live with myself if something happened to you?” Even if he can’t see, Dean can imagine her taking Emmanuel’s hand in hers, looking at him with beseeching eyes uncannily similar to Dean’s. “Please, come back home with me, Emmanuel. Come home and be _safe_.”

              “Daphne.” He’s says her name on a sigh, and it’s sad, regretful, pitying almost, but without the condescending inflection. His hand releases her shoulder to carefully cup her cheek. “You have always told me that God had a plan for me, and this is it. We’ve found it. I’m not just a faith healer anymore – I’m Castiel, an angel, a servant of the Lord. Bigger responsibilities than just healing lost souls that stumbles across my path have been thrust upon me. And now that I know what's out there . . . I can't just go back to the way things were, I can't just stick my head in the sand and wait for it all to go away. Believe me," he adds wearily. "I've tried.”

              “There nothing wrong with a life devoted to helping people, Emmanuel,” Daphne protests angrily, desperately.

              “I never said there was,” Emmanuel corrects softly. “I love my work, I love the peace I can bring people, and that’ll never change, even if I were to one day stop being Emmanuel. That's the part of me that wanted you here, that called you. But I've had time to think, to live with the Winchesters . . . and now I believe that God has decided now is the time for me to do more. I need to help the world, Daphne, not just Colorado.”

              At this point Dean is forced to shut his eyes, throat closing up in pity. Ah, Emmanuel. He’s so much like Cas (and Jimmy) it hurts to watch _. . ._ If only he knew how short his story really was.

              “How do you even know this is what God really wants, Emmanuel?” Daphne asks him, an edge of hopeless defiance in her voice. “Does He talk to you now, is that it?” 

               “No,” Emmanuel admits somberly. “Not as far as I know. I just . . . Daphne, remember all those time I woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat with an indescribable ache in my chest?”

               Dean tenses, ears perking.

               “The . . . the feeling, I remember that’s what you used to call it,” Daphne says quietly after a moment. “You said it felt like someone was calling out to you. That they _needed_ you.”

                Dean can see Emmanuel’s head bob in affirmation. “Yes. But we never found them, didn’t know where to start, and the only solution we found to easing it was throwing myself into my work, in the sanctuary you helped me create in our community.” Emmanuel sighs, breathing out through his nose, like he's bracing himself. “It’s been nearly a week since I’ve healed anyone, but I’ve barely felt the longing once."

                Daphne starts to say, “Is it –?” but apparently thinks better of it, and holds her tongue – which is rather rude, given how Dean’s curiosity is eating him alive, how much he wants Daphne to be his mouth, to give voice to his theories.

                “So you see,” Emmanuel continues softly, voice oddly pitched, “I don’t think my home is in Colorado anymore.”

                 “Or with me,” Daphne says hoarsely, straight to the point. “As your wife.”

 The tension in the room rackets up to eleven, and Dean's caught in the middle. Yikes. _This can be filed under: Not one of my better plans._ Down below, Dean’s skin is crawling with the need to escape what he brashly intruded on – he definitely got way more than he bargained for out of this – but it’s too late to steal away without being seen.

                 “I don't - It doesn’t have to be like this,” Emmanuel offers quietly after a moment. “I asked you up here for a reason, Daphne, and that was to ask if _you_ would consider staying. With me. Think of all the _good_ we can do together.”

                 Dean raises an eyebrow at that.  _Wow, Manny, thanks for running that one by me first,_ he thinks to himself, just as Emmanuel adds hastily, "I'm sure Dean won't mind. Once he gets use to the idea . . ." _  
_

                 Daphne is shaking her head before the words are fully out of Emmanuel’s mouth. “No . . . No, I can’t, Emmanuel, and I'm pretty sure you already know that.” He tries to argue, but she presses on. Her voice is breaking now, and the sniffing growing in frequency. “I have no place in this new world, Emmanuel, not like you do. Demons and real-life angels - It _terrifies_ me, and if you go down that road, you won’t be the same man I fell – that I married,” she corrects after an abrupt break-off. “You can’t have both your ‘destiny’ and me, you have to choose. Just know –” and here her voice softens by degrees – “I’ll never think less of you for it, for staying here, for following what’s in your heart. You always were braver than me, Emmanuel.”

                “But you’ve always been there for me . . .” Emmanuel protests, sounding irrevocably lost, and it makes Dean’s heart hurt, as does the unspoken question: _What do I do without you?_

                “And now you have someone else. More than just one person – you have an entire family. What use do you have for small-town girl church secretary like me?” she says with self-deprecating humor. 

                “That’s not true, you’re my family _too,"_   Emmanuel insists earnestly.

                 “Emmanuel . . . oh sweet, dearest Emmanuel,” she whispers, drawing him closer. “If you had wanted me to stay, you would have asked. Actually asked.”

                “I don’t understand, I thought that’s what I did,” he says helplessly. 

                “But you didn’t, not the way I wanted you to.” Daphne gives a pained laugh, like she’s trying to smile through the tears. “So _stupid_. You’d think I’d finally learn after all these years . . .” she seems to say to no one but herself, sniffs again before managing to pull herself briefly together, pulling tightly at her strings before she starts spilling from the seams. “So, now that you truly understand what you are asking, I will ask you once more.” She makes an effort to clear her throat, though her voice is still thick when she speaks. “Is there truly nothing I can say to convince you to come back with me?”

                Dean expects for more protests, for this took take at least a few minutes’ consideration, but instead Emmanuel simply sighs, defeated. He was never pigheaded to the point of obstinacy, not like Castiel is. “No," he says quietly. "It would seem there isn’t.”

                Daphne nods sharply, holding herself up steadily, though Dean thinks he can see the trembling of her shoulders. Words clipped, she says, “That’s what I thought.”

             Emmanuel moves closer. “Daphne . . . I’m so sorry. I never wanted it to end like this.”

                More sniffles, and where Daphne’s voice was steady and strong like tempered steel moments before is now thick and breaks more than once, hair-thin fractures breaking out across the surface, as she forces out, “It’s just – it’s just that I looked for you for _so long_ , and now I’ve lost you all over again . . .” She wipes delicately at her eyes with her hand. “It’s not _fair_.”

                “I know . . . I know, I know.” Dean watches as Emmanuel scoops Daphne into his arms, one arm wrapping around her tiny waist as the other strokes down through her hair as he hooks his chin over her shoulder. With that Daphne finally cracks, easily sinking into the circle of his arms, her arms slipping under his to press her face into his neck as the sniffs dissolve into choked-off sobs.

                  Giving the couple a moment, Dean leans away until he can sink back against the cold wall, dazed and feeling suspiciously misty-eyed himself.

                  _What - the - hell?_   Dean thinks dazedly to himself.

                Now, Dean’s never thought of himself as the brightest bulb in the tanning bed, but even he should have somehow saw this coming. He was sure – so very sure – that Emmanuel, despite his affable nature, couldn’t wait to put Kansas in his rear-view mirror (as he so aggressively reminded Dean this morning), and now he’s spouting some crap about purpose and destiny? A quick mental review of the last few hours coughs up no hints or clues on how they’ve arrived at this moment. What’s even weirder is that for all her pleading and grief, Daphne doesn’t seem all that surprised by Emmanuel’s declaration, almost like she saw it coming. Guess she was paying closer attention than he was – or maybe the fact Dean continuously denied was indeed truth, that Daphne simply knows Emmanuel better than Dean does. 

              The thought doesn’t sting as much as it would have an hour ago, not when Emmanuel is at this moment giving it all up for the Winchesters. Again.

             “The way you look at him, though . . .” Daphne hiccup-laughs through her tears, her amusement wry. “I should have guessed . . .  I never stood a chance, did I?”

 _Say what now?_ Deannearly blows his cover by jerking his head out for a peak before remembering he’s supposed to be doing this incognito, and hastily yanks himself back into the shadows, cursing up a storm internally. But no one sees him thankfully.

            “Who, Castiel?” Emmanuel asks, too politely innocent to be believed. “Well, yes, I suppose he has a great deal to teach me, but I don’t think I’ve been _staring_ – ow, that hurt - was that really necessary, Daphne?” he asks, but Dean can hear the amused undercurrent.

             “Don’t even try it, mister,” she says shakily through another hiccup-laugh. She releases her chokehold from Emmanuel’s neck, pulling back enough to look up at him. “You’ve always been a terrible liar."

             Emmanuel sighs, bowing his head. “I don’t know what Dean Winchester means to me,” he responds, slowly as though picking his words with great care, to which Dean, who had been hoping for more colorful declarations, such as (but not limited to), _I find myself irresistibly attracted to Dean and his roguish good looks and I’m just barely fighting the uncontrollable urge to spread myself across his bed with chocolate sauce drizzle across my rocking bod,_ pouts a bit. But he perks up a bit when Emmanuel continues with, “But I intend to find out while I remain here. Perhaps Castiel can give me some answers."

           “And I’ll only get in the way,” Daphne surmises, a bitter twist to her words. It sounds as thought the flow of her tears has stopped for now, stemmed by resignation.

            “No, _no_ , Daphne. Whatever we are - or were - Dean is not the sole reason I'm staying behind –”

            “You never really did love me did you?” she blurts out, and Emmanuel falls silent. “Wait. I’m sorry, that came out wrong again.” Her odd chuckle is jagged in self-consciousness as she self-consciously pulls a lank of hair behind her ear. “It seems I have quite the chronic case of foot-in-mouth today.”

            “Daphne, I do care a great deal for you. Please never doubt that,” Emmanuel rushes out before she can interrupt him, voice pained.

             “I know, I know, Emmanuel,” she soothes, rubbing a hand up his arm. “What I meant to say is . . . I don’t believe you ever loved me the way I hoped you would come to.” Her voice takes on a wistful tone. “How could you, when it’s clear a part of you was always missing?”

             “I tried,” Emmanuel says softly, throat thick. “I wanted to make you happy, to appease you –”

              Daphne’s hand returns to Emmanuel’s face, caresses his cheek affectionately. “Because you’re a wonderfully kind person, Emmanuel. Angel or not, that’s who you are, and I was so _horribly_ selfish to try and take advantage of that. It was terrifying easy, telling myself if I was merely patient with you, eventually you would fall in love with me, and we could have the perfect marriage I'd always dreamed about, have kids, grow old together. . . ." She sighs, and the small sound is self-contemptuous. "I was absolutely dazzled by you, Emmanuel. Being married to you was like getting to walk in starlight every day . . . I just didn’t realize I was stealing away someone else’s star to do it.” She laughs self-deprecatingly. “And I call myself a good Christian.”

            “No,” Emmanuel says firmly, and Dean blinks, because that sounded almost _angry_. “Don’t you dare sully the memory of our marriage by forgetting what made it wonderful, what made it work. It wasn't, as you say, 'perfect,' but it was good, and it was ours." Interpreting Daphne's silence as unconvinced, he continues, "Remember how shortly after you found me by that river, you said that God had wanted you to find me? I believed it then just as I believe it now. We were both at points in our lives where we were in lonely and in need of another kindred spirit, so God brought us together. You kept me safe until the Winchester we’re able to find me again. And Daphne, think of all the people you've helped."

            "I don’t have superpowers, Emmanuel. I didn’t really do anything there,” but Dean can hear the smile in her voice, and feel the one on his face.

            “You guided them to me, sent them my way, made sure people who were in need knew my name. That was all _you_ , your generosity, and your goodness of spirit. So, Daphne Allen, I, Emmanuel Allen, formerly Castiel of the Lord, _thank you_.”

             After a moment's pause, Daphne puts her hands on his shoulders to steady herself as she rises to her tiptoes, reaching until she can kiss Emmanuel on the forehead. She whispers something, but Dean can't hear it (that's good, it probably wasn't meant for his ear anyway).

             Daphne releases Emmanuel, taking hesitant steps towards the door. "So I guess this is it then . . ." she starts, but Emmanuel reaches out, pulling her back gently by the elbow.

             "Just a moment." He bows his head, fiddling with something in his hands. "Before you leave, you deserve to have this back."

             "What do you . . . ? Oh, Emmanuel, no, I couldn't possibly -"

            "It's only right, as you were the one who chose it." Emmanuel shows her his hand, palm up, and though Dean can't see it from here, it can only be one thing. "You have so much love to give Daphne, I just don’t want it to be wasted on me. Please, take back the ring. I'm sure you'll need it as proof of our annulment”

             But Daphne is shaking her head. “No, never wasted," she correctly quietly. She takes his hand only to close his palm. "Please keep it. Just . . . so you don’t forget me.”

              "I'll never will," Emmanuel proclaims solemnly, slipping the ring back on. "And neither will Castiel."

            They embrace again, Emmanuel pressing his cheek against the top of Daphne's head.

             “I’ll never forget you, or all that you’ve done for me," Emmanuel says into her head. Should you ever find yourself needing help, come back to Kansas. You’ll always be welcomed here. I’ll make sure of it.”

            “Of course,” she replies graciously, but something about her tone suggests to Dean that she won’t ever be back, even if Emmanuel did stay. Some wounds just cut too deep to ever heal. “Goodbye, Emmanuel.”

            “Goodbye, Daphne. And . . . I’m sorry.”

            “No.” The response is so soft Dean has to strain to hear. “Don’t apologize. I don’t regret us, and I don’t want you too either. Just . . . make the most of this. And be happy, for me.”

            “I will. And you as well.”

            There is an awkward quiet above Dean’s head, and Dean can imagine Emmanuel or Daphne or maybe both opening their mouth, but both must realize that there is nothing more to say.

            And with that she’s disappearing from Dean’s view, the metal door swinging shut behind her with a loud groan that leaves behind a peeling echo, ringing of finality. Even as the sound fades into nothingness, Emmanuel makes no move to turn around and make his way back down the landing to join the others. As far as Dean can tell from his limited advantage point, Emmanuel is just standing there with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, motionless, but whether it is to gather his disjointed thoughts or to slowly come to the realization that he’s just made a grave mistake, Dean can’t tell. What he does know is that he’s already pushing his luck as it is, and that it’s time for Dean to make his exit, stage left pursed by bear, before he’s caught in a rather compromising situation.

            Scarcely allowing himself to breathe, Dean turns slowly on his heel until his back is to the stairs. The tip of his tongue carefully tucked between the corner of his mouth, he carefully extends one socked foot forward to tiptoe back the way he came, makes one step, then two, three, four more when suddenly –

            “I know you’re down there, Dean.”

            Dean winces. _Dammit._ He swings his head back up and around, and there Emmanuel is, gazing impassively down at Dean from the landing, hands resting on the wrought-iron banister.

            “Oh, heeeeyyy! Manny! Didn’t see you up there. This, um – this isn’t what it looks like,” Dean calls back, too breathless even to his own ears. “I just happened to be here, uh, making my way to the kitchen for a sandwich, you know how it is. Gotta maintain this – um, manly physique.” He pats his stomach for effect. “Yeah, I mean, um . . . Ah, what the fuck.” He gives in with a defeated sigh. “How long did you know I was here?”

            Emmanuel’s lips twitch. “Not the whole time,” he assures. “Only for most of it.”

            “Ah. _Fannnn_ –friggin’–tastic,” Dean groans. “Well, I guess there goes my lifelong dream of becoming a ninja.” His next groan is more of a resigned sigh as he wags his head ruefully, running a hand through his hair. Time to come clean.

            “Look, Manny, I wasn’t trying to listen in or anything, I was just . . .” He flounders, aware there’s really no way to play this off as anything other than an invasion of privacy. “Checking in . . .?”

            “Interesting,” Emmanuel responds lowly, his face unreadable from this distance. “Because to me it looks suspiciously similar to _snooping_.”

            Dean has the decency to be mortified, heat racing up the back of his neck to set the very tips of his ears aflame as he just barely tamps down the urge to hang his head. “Yeah, yeah, you would be – right. Okay, um.” He chuckles awkwardly, the sound breaking in odd places. “Sorry, man . . . I’ma –” He throws a careless hand over his shoulder, already taking a step backwards. “I’m gonna beat a hasty retreat now –” Why the _hell_ is he still talking? – “‘cause you clearly got your own thing going on here –”

            “No, Dean, please – Please, wait.” Before Dean knows what’s happening, Emmanuel is making his way down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Dean reluctantly hangs back, but only because Emmanuel doesn’t look like he’s ready to reacquaint himself with his angel powers and wants Dean as his practice dummy. In fact, as he nearly trips getting down the bottom step, Dean only now notices that Manny’s looking a little haggard there, quickly takes in the appearance of more pronounced purple bags under his eyes more as well as the crow’s feet. It all makes it seem as though Emmanuel’s gained a few years within the space of minutes, that he’d been caught under the heel of life and ground down into a more somber, less naïve version of himself. He’s never looked more like Castiel than he does in that moment, and the thought strikes Dean as particularly depressing.

_Just one more thing I’ve fucked up._

            “Hey, I get it, man,” Dean says when Emmanuel reaches him. “I’ll go be somewhere else and get outta your hair –”

            Emmanuel holds up a hand, and Dean blessedly shuts his mouth. “You misunderstand me, Dean, I don’t want you to leave. Actually, just the opposite . . . I could use the company right now, if I’m being honest. I . . .” And here Emmanuel’s gaze drifts away, and with his slumped shoulders and dazed expression he looks more than a little lost. “I think I am going through what you would call a ‘breakup.’”

             If Emmanuel’s voice sounds a little more hoarse than usual, and his eyes are oddly glassy, well, Dean can pretend for his sake that the dust kicked up from the floor is playing havoc with his allergies.

            “Yeah, I heard,” Dean says, making a rather useless hand gesture, then grimaces. “Sorry again about the eavesdropping by the way.”

            “No need to apologize, Dean. I know there was no ill-intent behind the gesture, even if it was perhaps a bit rash,” Emmanuel reassures him, smiling ruefully.

            “. . .  Sorry,” Dean blurts out before he can stop himself, flinching before the word is even fully out of his mouth.

            When Emmanuel smiles this time, it’s a little fuller, showcasing his pearly whites. “It’s fine, Dean, _really_. Please don’t stress yourself out over it; I would have sent you away if I didn’t want you to hear it.”

            “Sneaky bastard,” Dean acknowledges, chucking in spite of it all.

            “I just hope you can make it up to me by letting me take advantage of your generous hospitality for a little while longer than previously anticipated.”

            The last bit comes out with a bit of an uptilt at the end, nearly a question, and Emmanuel side-eyes Dean nervously.

            “Oh . . . _Oh_! Hey – hell yeah, of course, buddy!” Dean says in a jumbled rush, too relieved he’s off the hook to be mildly offended that Emmanuel could believe for even a second that Dean would be that much of an asshole. “You didn’t honestly think we’d leave you out in the cold, did ya? Mind you, you’ll still be bunking down with Crazy Wings, and I can’t guarantee the food will get any better.”

            “Hmm. Don’t let Misha hear you say that, or he might put kale in your burger next time,” Emmanuel says after a pause, like he’s hesitant of his ability to crack a joke. It’s so completely off-the-wall, and told in a nearly deadpan tone of voice, that it has Dean cracking up with unexpected, belly-aching laughter, bending forward to clutch helplessly at his middle. After a moment, Emmanuel hesitantly joins in, too, deep-chested giggles bubbling out of him.

            “Goddamn, Manny . . .” Dean wheezes, slapping him heartily on the back. “You’re just a regular comedian now, ain’t’cha?”

            “No, but apparently I’m an angel with head problems,” is Emmanuel’s prompt reply, which spurs Dean into a new fit of giggles.

            “This isn’t  . . .” Emmanuel hiccups again before clearing his throat, putting in a valiant effort to control his twitching cheek muscles while looking up at Dean with watery eyes. “This can’t be normal, can it?”

            “Is what normal?” Dean asks, still chuckling, breathing harder than usual as he wipes a hand past his eyes where tears have gathered, though really, what the hell would Dean know anything about being _normal_?

             “Shouldn’t I be feeling – I don’t know – _sadder_?” Emmanuel asks quietly, and he’s not laughing anymore, and now neither is Dean, the latter sobering up quickly. Instead, Dean catches Manny staring somberly down at his hand, rubbing at the newly revealed band of sun-bleached skin on his third finger. As he does, he exhales a harsh huff, forehead creased in lines of frustration as he wages some internal battle. “I mean, I _am_ sad, obviously, and guilty too . . . but not in the way I expected to, the way I’ve seen loss of a partner portrayed on television and in my community’s congregation back ho – back in Colorado. It’s not any sort of debilitating grief, but it does carry its own particular flavor of hurt.” Dean silently watches as Emmanuel rubs his lips together in contemplation, pink tongue peeking out. “I don’t know, it just feels more like . . . weariness. A bone-deep exhaustion. Like I’ve come to the end of a long journey, but I’ve still got miles to go before I find my way back home.” He makes a small sound. “If _home_ even exists anymore.”

            Dean can’t help but huff a bitter laugh as he cautiously moves closer to Emmanuel until he can lean his hip against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, that I know a little something about that,” he says, his mind helpfully dragging up washed-out memories of when he’d walked out on Lisa and Ben in that hospital in Cicero, how all he’d wanted to do after was grab a bottle of the strongest poison disguised as alcohol and crawl into bed to sleep for the rest of forever. It’s only then that Dean wonders if he should have mentioned to Manny beforehand that if he tapped into his mojo, he could wipe Daphne’s memories and spare her the any discomfort – but better yet, _nah_.

            Lisa and Ben . . . even now, years later, Dean still isn’t sure if the call he’d made was the right one. At the time, finally faced with the destruction he had carved through the Braeden’s lives like mud tracked through a house, there had seemed like there were no safe choices, no bad and worse ones, and only one that would ensure a clean fix to his mess while guaranteeing their safety. It had been hard, sure, and the furtive looks he caught Sam slipping at him for weeks afterwards, equal parts judgmental and pitying, hadn’t made it any better, but Dean had been so _damn_ sure it was the only way . . .

            It was only after Castiel had come back into Dean’s life and he was able to think clearly again that he had begun to realize that in his mad dash to sweep his mess under the rug, he hadn’t once taken Lisa or Ben’s consent into consideration, had decided somewhere along the way their well-being was more important than their free will. Talk about your bitter irony. Honestly, it’s the kind of asshole move John Winchester would have pulled, except he wouldn’t have endlessly angsted over it. Dean certainly doesn’t pull much comfort from the uncomfortable comparison.

            But every time doubt began to bleed through the cracks, all it would take to reaffirm his conviction was the memory of Ben’s pale, tear-stained face as Dean had shoved a shotgun into his trembling hands only moments after he had watched his possessed mom get shot in the stomach. No way does a child escape that sort of supernatural violence unscathed. Forever marked by something dark.

            Dean should know, he’s practically the poster child, and he’d be damned if his son-in-all-but-blood grew up living in constant fear that the monsters would one day return for him.

            If wiping their memory keeps Lisa and Ben safe in the long run . . . Dean would make the same decision all over again, in a heartbeat.

            On the other hand, Daphne, for all her faults, has already proven herself to be a survivor. She escaped demons, lost her husband once, and she didn’t fall down the dark rabbit hole like so many other hunters Dean has met. Instead she soldiered on, sought out her husband through more conventional means instead of making deals with devils. It wasn’t grief or revenge the consumed her, but a human desire that drove her, kept her sane. She connected with humanity instead of pushing it away. Her journey led her here to Lebanon, and yeah, it was touch and go for a while there, a bit rocky, but now that she has her answers, she can go home, a changed woman, but the same in the ways that’ll matter. She’ll be safer away from all this in Colorado, and she’ll be one of the few special ones who can put this all behind her.

            "Talking it – about Daphne – like this, like she’s merely the end of a chapter in my life . . . it makes me sound heartless,” Emmanuel realizes with a grimace, breaking Dean from his thoughts. “A lousy excuse for a husband."

            “Nah, it just makes you sound human,” Dean corrects bluntly, bumping his shoulder against Emmanuel’s companionably. “Losing people sucks, dude, take it from me. But hey, look at it this way – at least she ain’t dead.” Emmanuel visibly blanches, shooting Dean a wide-eyed look, but Dean plows on, because it’s clear Emmanuel doesn’t really get what a bullet it was he shoved Daphne out of the way from. “Listen: She’ll go back to Colorado, and she’ll have her church weekends and her knitting club and her chamomile tea and her perfectly boring life away from all this crap – but most importantly she’ll be alive _because of you_.” He pokes Manny in the chest for emphasis. “Because of you, Manny, ‘cause you were strong enough to let go. You might not see it now, but trust me, it’s gonna be better for both of you in the long run. Being near us just lowers people’s life expectancy.”

             “That’s a particularly morbid way of looking at it, I suppose,” Emmanuel allows, sounding a little dazed.

             “Yep, we’re deadlier than a year’s supply of Big Macs,” Dean agrees with a self-deprecating snort. “But you should keep in mind, it’s not _really_ goodbye . . . you’ll get to see her again.” _Pretty soon if things go according to plan_ , but Dean doesn’t speak that last thought aloud. “Magic spells with a side of time travel, remember? ‘S a pretty sweet perk, all things considered.”

             Emmanuel doesn’t look all that convinced, and he says as much. “Be that as it may, that was her goodbye – this Daphne’s at least – and our futures are no longer intertwined. I’ll never know what became of her,” he whispers. "I thought I was making the right decision for the right reasons, but now -ahh." Emmanuel shakes his head in dismay. "Maybe she was right."

              But Dean is adamant, even if his heart is breaking a little for Emmanuel.

              “Lucky for you, Manny, it takes two to tango, and from what I heard, it was as much as her decision as it was yours. She could have stayed,” he points out, even if the idea of _Daphne Allen: Demon Hunter_ is a little absurd. He lightly jabs Emmanuel with his elbow. “Give the little lady some credit. She seems like a tough cookie. I’m sure she’ll be just fine. Worse comes to worse, she can always trying hiking again and rustle herself up a new husband.” His lips pull up in a crooked smirk. “Worked the first time, didn’t it?”

              Judging by the half-hearted glare aimed his way, Emmanuel doesn’t appreciate Dean’s sense of humor. But the heat in his gaze quickly cools, and Emmanuel sighs, looking off into the middle distance.

              “I’ve realized as much on my own, but you are right,” he offers, half-exasperated, half-reluctantly amused, “even if you tenaciously insist on pretending to make an ass out of yourself just to prove your point.”

              “My greatest strength, or so I’ve been told,” Dean quips. “. . . Remind me what it is I’m right about?”

              “That Daphne may meet someone after this,” Emmanuel clarifies. He sighs, tilts his head thoughtfully. “I know you two didn’t see always eye to eye, Dean, that much was clear to me, much as I pretended otherwise, but I also saw how very much alike you two were, in more ways than one.” He pauses, peeks at Dean for a reaction, but Dean for once holds off from the cutting remarks, lips pursed as he listens. Galvanized by Dean’s silent permission, Emmanuel continues, smiling a little, “You’re both stubborn, very fixed in your world views, sometimes to your own determent.” The smile grows into a full-blown, eye-crinkling grin. “You both have such big hearts that I’m constantly humbled by your kindness, and you see yourselves as protectors, born to always look out for others . . . I want that for her, so very much. I want her to find another human being she could share her life and her heart with, someone who will care as much for her as she will for them, will cherish her, appreciate her goodness.” Emmanuel visibly swallows then, shifts his gaze away in guilt. “Love her in the way I never could . . .

               “Yeah. ‘M sure she’ll find herself a great fella. Or gal, whatever . . .” Dean mumbles eventually, still working through what Emmanuel had said about him and Daphne being similar. It makes him uncomfortable, that Emmanuel, who doesn’t even _know_ Dean, could hold him in a regard as high as his wife. So he does what he always does, covers his feelings up with a dumb joke. “If walking aimlessly through the woods doesn’t work out she can always consider giving eHarmony a try. Or maybe Christian Singles will be more up her alley?”

                Emmanuel sighs heavily, but he does look slightly cheered. “I only pray you’re right . . . And what about you, Dean?” Emmanuel says after a moment, turning to focus back on Dean with discerning eyes.

               “What about me?”

               “I mean, who will you have after this is all over?”

               Dean scrunches his brow in confusion, nonplussed. “Dude, when what’s all over?”

               “Oh, um. This.” Emmanuel makes a vague hand gesture, looks around at the cavernous expanse of the bunker. “Hunting. This lifestyle that is, as you say, _deadlier_ than a copious amount of fast food. When will you proceed to the next chapter of your life, Dean?”

               “What’s it to you?” Dean demands with unnecessary sharpness, defensive in a way he can’t explain, even to himself. “You won’t be here for it.”

                Undeterred, Emmanuel simply gives a shrug, still watching Dean. “It’s just honest curiosity, Dean. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

                If anyone else had the nerve to say that to Dean, Dean would accuse them of being a manipulative bastard. But because it’s Manny, well . . . 

                 You serious?” Dean huffs. Emmanuel nods, his expression keenly earnest, and God, Dean knows he shouldn’t feel the wave of shame that creeps up over him, but he does, especially with Emmanuel looking at him like Dean’s just gonna become some grade school teacher or a doctor or some shit the minute he hangs up his gun, like Dean can just walk up and leave any time he wants, like this life won’t end horrible and bloody like it does _every_ – _single_ – _time_. If Emmanuel actually knew him, knew the real Dean – the brutish schmuck, violent fuck up with alcohol problems and not the one who’s putting him up for the night (who hopes to fuck him before the week is out) – no way would he have so generous opinion.

                Daphne’s the one who’s going to score the white-picked fence with the pastor husband who runs his own nonprofit and have 2.3 kids and the three-legged rescue lab to boot; Dean’s gonna get an early grave, marked if he’s lucky (one he’ll probably be dragged out of so the whole thing can start all over again). Emmanuel had it all wrong, they couldn’t be more different.

               “This is pretty much it for me, Manny. I’ve already had my fill of the apple-pie life and I fucked that up pretty thoroughly. No surprise there . . .” Dean smiles bitterly, looks down at his boots as he scuffs the toe against the floor. “Nah, I’m better off running the family business with Sam and Cas, and I’m cool with that.”

                It’s the truth – or at least the important bits. Really, Dean had learned to stop hoping for better things a long time ago. Even if he got them, he’d still be too broken to know what to do with them. No need for a Cicero reboot.

                When Dean glances back up, he’s treated to Emmanuel’s absolutely devastated expression.

                “You don’t honestly believe that, do you?” he whispers in disbelief, wobbly-lipped. He sounds so honestly upset that it has Dean floundering, his protective instincts naturally kicking in, like the time  Dean had found himself explain a tow-headed, runny-nosed Sam why all the other kids at school believed in Santa and – _and_ _where the hell did they make the wrong turn and end up on Dean’s landfill of issues?_

                 Dean forces a light laugh. “Jeez, man, you were doing alright there before, don’t break down on me now. Lighten up.”

                 Emmanuel looks, if possible, only more distraught.

                 “Look, it’s _fine_ , Manny – _someone’s_ gotta do the grunt work if we want to keep this planet spinning, and I’m cool with that being me.” What Dean very carefully does say is that, _Pretty sure I’ve found my more and he probably won’t be speaking to me until the next Apocalypse after all this is said and done_.

                 “Your life is measured in more than what you do, Dean, what your value to others is,” Emmanuel says tensely, and he looks almost angry – or as close to angry as Emmanuel is capable of. “Walking away from all this would make you no less important to your brother or to Castiel.” Still making sad puppy-dog eyes, Emmanuel tips his head to the side, studying Dean. “I believe you deserve to have someone just as much as Daphne does,” Emmanuel says quietly, and Dean has to look away from the unexpected yet unmistakable affection shining in his gaze his breath hitching. “If you saw yourself as I see you . . .”

                “I think you and I see two totally different things, Manny,” Dean responds carefully, more focusing on controlling his uneven breathing. _The way you look at him._ That’s what Daphne had said. There’s no way she could possibly be insinuating – _that_. Just – no. Dean refuses to let his thoughts stray down that road.

                 “It would seem so,” Emmanuel says pityingly, but he takes the hint to drop the subject.

               A quiet falls between them, heavy with the uncertainty of the future. Emmanuel’s gaze has fallen back to his left hand and the bone-white band around his finger, his expression unreadable, but hopefully (and maybe Dean is just seeing what he wants to) a little less saturnine.

              “But hey – enough about me.” Dean hesitates for a moment, not sure if the gesture will be welcome so soon after a change in Emmanuel’s marital status, but what the hell, he decides, and steps forward to wrap a hand on Emmanuel’s shoulder. The muscle stiffens, but as Manny makes no attempt to shake him off, Dean figures he’s good for gold. “You gonna be okay, man?” he asks, leaning closer in an admittedly futile attempt to discern Emmanuel’s emotional state of mind from peering into the endless depths of his blue eyes. All that does is end up giving Dean a nasty case of those little nervous stomach flips. “Not gonna get drunk in a bathtub and start caterwauling Air Supply, are you?”

              Emmanuel seems to consider his answer before replying, which Dean considers a better sign than the actual response. “I will be, I think,” he replies slowly, testing the weight of each word.

             “You _sure_?” Dean presses.

             “Yes. Eventually . . .” He grimaces. “I just keep going over in my head that all of this could have been avoided had I listened to you from the very beginning, instead of dragging Daphne all the way here for nothing,” Emmanuel sighs wearily. “It was both foolish and incredibly selfish, which I’ve always thought myself better than.” He looks at Dean. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

            “Yeah, well, you know what they say about hindsight,” Dean casually tosses out there, choosing to take the high road for once.

             “. . . No, I don’t, actually” Emmanuel turns to look at him with a furrowed brow. “What do they say?”

            “Oh, um, just that it’s twenty-twenty and whatnot. And erm.” Dean waves a frivolous hand. “Ya know, that you only see what’s ahead of you when you’re already blowing past it. Or something.”

            “Hmm, I see.” Emmanuel nods gravely. “And who are _they_? Sounds very clandestine.”

            “Jeez, Manny,” Dean chuckles, releasing the hand from Manny’s shoulder to slide down his back, giving it a hearty pat. “You’re missing the point. All I’m trying to say is that, you can still stand here and dither all you want, but eventually you’re gonna have to let go. Anyway, maybe this was for the best. At least now she knows what happened to you. Gave her some peace of mind from that.”

            Emmanuel sighs deeply, drops his gaze. “You’re right. I know you are, it’s just . . . it’s a little scary, stepping off the cliff into the unknown. I’ve never been outside of Colorado before everything happened . . . Dean, can I ask you something?”

            “You just did,” Dean quips, head ducked and smiling despite himself. When Emmanuel remains silent, Dean rolls his eyes. “But, yeah, you can ask another one.”

            “Why are you in your socks?”

 _Wha –? Oh_. Dean looks down at his feet; his big toe wiggles hello to him from the gaping hole in the left sock. “Forgot about that. I was trying to be sneaky.” He looks back up at Emmanuel, expression sheepish. “Thanks for not being pissed by the way. Or ratting me out.”

             Emmanuel smiles indulgently at him. “Dean, as much as I find your propensity to over repent charming, I firmly believe it is _I_ who should be thanking _you_.”

            “For what?”

              “For being here. For coming for me,” Emmanuel says softly. “I think I wasn’t sure about my decision until I felt your presence downstairs, and finally understood what my heart had been trying to tell me all along: that here was where I was needed more.”

              “Manny, I don’t know if Lebanon is where you wanna set up a miracle shop –”

            “That _you_ need me more,” Emmanuel clarifies, eyeing Dean nervously.

              “Oh,” Dean says, ‘cause what the hell does one even say to something like that? He clears his throat roughly, working past the ball of emotion stuck there. “Yeah, well, I had to make sure you were okay, you know? I didn’t trust Daphne not to drag you out and hogtie you to the back of her Prius.”

              “I know,” Emmanuel replies serenely, like he doesn’t buy Dean’s bullshit for a second.

               “And also . . . I don’t know, I guess . . .” Dean exhales forcefully, shoving his hands into his jean pockets, then confesses in a rush, “Part of me always believed you’d come back,” and it’s only as Dean says it that he realizes it might not just be a lie after all. “I just needed to see for myself.”

                A pale blush pinkens his cheeks as Emmanuel shyly glances at Dean, and he beams.

                “Does this mean that we can . . . can we be friends now?” It’s unexpected, said as though prepared to snatch it back at the first rebuff, and has Dean looking up at him in surprise. Emmanuel’s eyes are big and wide and so very, very blue, his dark hair curling against his forehead. “Even if I’m not Cas? I mean, I’m sorry, of course I’m trying to remember, but it’s not _working_ –”

                “Hey hey, of course, Manny,” Dean says quickly, unable to not chuckle just a little at Manny’s distress. “Just be yourself. I’m not looking for another Cas, I already like the one I got. Besides, _we_ –” He slings an arm around Manny’s shoulders, glad no one is around to give him crap about this supremely girly moment “– could always use another person crazy enough to hang out with us.”

               “Thank you, Dean,” Emmanuel says, visibly relieved. “I would like that very much. Other than Daphne, I’ve never had a friend before.”

               Dean fights the urge to wrap Manny in a blanket and make him a cup of hot chocolate because his childlike honesty is _killing_ him.

               “Well, in celebration of new friends, what’d you say we head back and knock back a couple of beers?” Dean cocks his head in the direction they came from. “Kick off the return to the single life with a bang – what’d’ya say?”

            “Well, I’ve never felt the need to consume any type of beverage before, much less one produced with the fermentation of yeast and barley–” He notices the look Dean is giving him. “Perhaps I can try it just this once. It certainly seems the appropriate occasion for inebriation.”

            Dean slaps him heartily on the back. “Now that’s what I like to –”

            An explosion of ear-piercing sound cuts Dean off, and for one insane moment Dean actually thinks Daphne has returned and is shrieking  - but no, duh, that’s not human, that’s a round of _gunfire_ , coming from somewhere in the bunker.

            Dean throws his hands in the air, exasperated beyond belief. “ _What the fuck is it this time_?”

            Emmanuel is already shrinking backwards.“Something's wrong."

            "Yeah, no shit, Manny," Dean retorts grimly. "Misha might have thought it was a prop."

            His eyes are wide and fearful as he looks up at Dean, but his tone still carries a note of reproval. "Dean, someone could be hurt.”

            “I’m gonna check it out. Stay here – I’ll come fetch you when it’s safe,” Dean tosses over his shoulder, already storming forward.

            “No, you might need me,” Emmanuel protests, obstinately keeping pace.

            Dean scoffs. “Unless you can kick your brain in the ass and work out how to tap into your mojo sometime in the next two minutes, I most certainly _don’t_.”

            “ _Dean_ –”

            “Manny, _no_.”

            “We’re wasting time arguing –”

            Dean opens his mouth to issue a final order, but Emmanuel squints his eyes by another degree. “Ugh, _fine_.”

            With a groan of frustration, Dean just grabs Emmanuel by the sleeve and tugs him forward, only lets go when Manny gets with the program and keeps pace with Dean as they haul ass down the corridor, through the map room, and into the library to find –

 _Blood_.

            That’s all Dean can see as his vision tunnels to a single point, all his brain has time to process and interpret – a man with his back to Dean, his trenchcoat and the familiar slope of shoulders stained with the viscous crimson liquid. Naturally, panic and confusion override any logical thought in a sweltering rush of adrenaline, including the important fact that the real Castiel is standing neext to Sam in front of the bloody figure, not twenty feet from Dean. He doesn’t even hear Cas’s shouted warning – _Dean, no!_ – before he’s rushing forward, ready to whip a hand out so he can pivot the man splattered in dried blood to face him.

Luckily, his brain finally catches up to him in the nick of time, stopping his hand just short of the figure’s shoulder.

            “Holy shit, Cas, man, are you – _what the –?!”_ Dean’s voice dies out in a strangled gasp as his hand recoils in revulsion, and he falters, stumbling back a step until he’s treading on Emmanuel’s feet. But too late, the figure is already turning smoothly on its heel with preternatural grace, greeting Dean with a rather grisly smile.

 _That’s not Cas_. His stomach squeezes until it feels like it’s going to rupture inside of him. _That’s –_

            “Dean,” the false god intones cordially, and everything from its tone to its facial mannerisms screams _wrong. Unnatural. Evil._ “How very nice of you to join us. I was just patiently explaining to the rest of the little ants here that I don’t appreciate being shot at. It . . . _irritates me_.”

            Dean involuntarily gulps. Hardly daring to take his eyes off the mutated creature that had once been the angel Castiel, Dean risks the scantest of glances over its shoulder to confirm that Sam is indeed holding a pistol, now faintly smoking although it’s hard to tell due to how badly Sam’s hand is shaking. His brother’s pale face mimics the epitome of _Oh shit._

            Dimly, Dean realizes the ruckus must have alerted not just him and Emmanuel, but the rest of the doppelgangers as well – Future Cas, Misha, and Crazy Cas – all huddled off to the side as they silently watch the standoff with varying degrees of fear and wariness etched on their otherwise identical faces, although Crazy Cas is the one who looks like he’s about ready to wet himself. Incredibly, he’s the also the only one who has drawn a weapon in what must be an incredibly valiant and stupid attempt at bravery, his angel blade shaking in his hand as his other clutches tightly to Misha’s arm.

            Only Future Cas meets Dean’s gaze. _Told you he was getting grumpy_ , his unimpressed expression seems to say.

            Godstiel pays its mirror images no mind (Why would it? Even combined they don’t have an eight of its power), spares only a moment more to shoot Dean a glare packed with warning – Dean reads the message loud and clear, can tell it expects its order of _Stay_ to be followed without complaint like a dog would heel for its master – before turning its attention back onto Sam.

            “I could say it’s good to see you again, Sam, but we both know that would be a lie,” the god says mildly. Its placidness is a sham, however; Dean can feel the heat of its anger like a flame licking at his skin. “What a shame your manners still haven’t approved, although at least you had the guts to shoot me in the face this time around instead of stabbing me in the back.” Its stolen voice drops an octave lower, its gaze darkening. “And to think I once called you friend and brother. How naïve I was back then.”

            Sam gulps, visibly struck mute from blatant terror. _Drop the fucking gun, moron!_ Dean is screaming in his head, pleading with his eyes, but of course Sam isn’t paying him a lick of attention. In his peripheral vision, Dean sees the god’s hand twitch, and at the same time Castiel tenses, human and weaponless and _breakable_ but preparing all the same to throw himself between Sam and the mad god should it decide to charge Sam.

            It would hardly be a fair fight, like watching a fly going against a bulldozer.

            That hand spasms again, twitchy like an itchy trigger finger.  “Maybe you should be punished,” the deity says thoughtfully to itself, cold gaze raking over Sam. “Yes, I quite like that idea. I think I will. A little tit for tat, a _tribute_. Tell me, Sam, would you like to revisit Hell?”

            It raises its hand, fingers curled liked claws –

“Wait, no, stop – don’t hurt them!” The cry rips itself from his throat without Dean making the conscious decision to release it, but he realizes his mistake too late, he’s already lurching forward, the only thing stopping him from barreling into the god is the sudden appearance of Emmanuel’s arms around his waist.

_Oh shit._

             He inwardly flinches when the God’s narrow-eyed gaze returns to him, pinning him with an intensity that weighs like a physical thing, dense and vast, a giant holding him down. But still Dean tries. “Please, just – What. What do you want?”

            Godstiel scowls over its shoulder at Dean, annoyance at the interruption sharp on its features, and Dean’s frantic heart misses a beat in his chest, so sure he’s just signed all of their death warrants with his impulsiveness. Behind him, he can feel Emmanuel shaking, panting breath coming fast against the back of Dean’s neck.

            “Some silence right now would be nice,” the false god snaps, its chapped upper lip curling. “As well as a little obedience.”

            “No – I mean, yeah,” Dean backtracks wildly at the raised eyebrow. He puts his hands out, palms outward, in a gesture of supplication. “Yeah, of course. Of course you do, wh-who doesn’t? I just – I just wanted to point out – if you could just hear me out, oh – oh your holy – your gracious holiness,” Dean manages to fumble out; he doesn’t even have the capacity to layer on the sarcasm like he usually does, not when baiting the god could lead to Sam’s and Cas’s fast – but explosive – demises. “Show us – show him some mercy. He’s very, very sorry, aren’t you, Sam?”

            Sam’s hazel eyes finally flicker to meet Dean’s, and it’s hard not to see the towhead, snot-nosed kid Sam used to be gazing right back through them, pleading for his big brother to swoop in and rescue him.

            “Sammy?” Dean presses.

            “Yeah – yeah, of course.” Sam hastily stows the gun in the back of his jeans, smiling weakly. “You just startled me, Cas.” He addresses the god with its stolen name after a moment’s hesitation, dredging up a frail smile.

             Behind Sam, the real Castiel shoot Sam a squinty-eyed look but holds his tongue, jaw clenching tight. The angel’s steely gaze telegraphs his hatred and shame well enough for him anyways.

            “ _Mercy_? You mean like the mercy you didn’t show me when you ordered Death to kill me, Dean?" Godstiel demands, pushing itself further into Dean's space in a way that reminds Dean of a large, looming bird of prey. "You forget that I’m no longer the Castiel you once knew, the Castiel that now cowers behind your brother's skirts. I won’t come running like a starved dog for a bone every time you snap your fingers. Why should I spare you, Sam?” Godstiel demands coolly, its hand – the same hand that snapped its pale fingers and eradicated an archangel – lifting just high enough to make Dean break out into a cool sweat. It’s _toying_ with them, he realizes with a surge of impotent rage, and there’s nothing any of them can do about it. “I don’t really need you nor the angels, Sam. I just need Dean.”

            “But – but shouldn’t a god be merciful?” Sam eventually stutters out.

            “Only a weak one,” is the scornful reply.

            Sam blanches, swallowing thickly enough to make his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, but the subtle threat isn’t enough to deter him ( _When has it ever? Dean thinks miserably_ ).

            “Perhaps you’re right,” he admits diplomatically, “but killing me would upset Dean, Cas.” There’s still a shiver of fear spiking through Sam’s words, but it’s tempered by the edge of control, the earnest way Sam keeps his eyes locked on Godstiel’s, head bowed forward just enough to be read as subservient. “And you don’t want that, do you? You said you need him – wouldn’t it be better to have him as a, erm, _willing_ servant?”

            Dean can only imagine what kind of face he must be making now, yet catching sight of Godstiel’s considering head tilt, he can’t deny his brother can be a downright crafty bastard when backed into a corner.

            Doesn’t mean Dean isn’t gonna put peanut butter into his shoes next time Sam leaves them unguarded if by some miracle they make it out of this one alive.

            The silence in the library as they wait for Godstiel to come to a decision is deafening, the kind where you could hear a pin drop from across the room. Cliché, yes, but no less intense. It’s the kind of silence that commands a presence, a great big overbearing thing that looms over them all, ready to swallow Dean whole and consume him. It goes on for so long that Dean becomes convinced that the mad god has made up its mind – _had_ already made up its mind this entire time as it gleefully watched them squirm and beseech futilely – and is now merely silently devising how best to remove Sam’s head from his body with the spinal chord still attached. Or which of them it is going to put collars on first, or even maybe –

           But then the silence is broken at the creature’s abrupt huffing sound, a sharp exhalation of air through its nose that sounds amused, and although Dean can’t see its expression, he’s pretty sure it’s smirking.

          “I’d forgotten how clever you can be when you want something, Sam,” it says silkily. “One might even call you a silver-tongued devil.”

          If Sam catches the innuendo of the jab, he makes no indication of it.

          “I’m not trying to trick you, Cas,” Sam asserts, trying for casual, friendly even, like this is just Sam and Castiel, not Sam and a being driven mad by billions of monster souls teeming under its skin.   Dean can still here the tenseness in his voice, though, and if he can, then so can Godstiel probably. “Just pointing out the facts.”

          “So you claim . . . Well, then, so be it. Rejoice, then, Sam, as I will humor you today, just this once. But be warned.” It half-turns to stare at Dean in a way that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. “Do not mistake my temporary leniency as clemency, Dean. Should I choose to, I can still rearrange your brother’s atoms into any way I choose. Perhaps he will be less irritating without his hands. Or his mouth.”

Shoulders slumping as the tension leaves him in a dizzying rush, Dean opens his mouth to profusely thank the god, human dignity be damned – but for whatever reason, Castiel beats him to punch, finally deciding to break his silence.

            “I suppose then that it’s too bad you couldn’t even bat an irksome fly away if you wanted to,” Castiel growls out heatedly, talking a bold step forward to put himself in front of Sam. “You call yourself a god, a divine being when really you’re nothing more than a magician armed with quaint parlor tricks and an inflated sense of importance.”

            The outpouring of outright hate in Castiel’s voice is unmistakable, as is the glint in his eye. For Castiel, this is so much more than protecting the Winchesters from a threat. This is _personal_.

            “ _Shut up, Cas_!” Dean hisses in panic, blood pressure spiking again. “Now is not the time to go all half-cocked maverick!”

            But too late – those soulless blue eyes are already focused unwaveringly on Castiel, practically bulging as Godstiel bares its teeth at an unfazed Castiel, a vein throbbing red on the side of its forehead, and _oh God_ – Dean’s going to be forced to watch Castiel pop in front of him like a water balloon again, isn’t he?

            “Insignificant cockroach.” Flecks of spittle fly from Godstiel’s lips. “You dare _speak_ to one such as me –?”

            “Oh, I do dare,” Castiel says, cool as a glacier, before turning catching Dean’s eye, dismissing the deity entirely. “Don’t you see, Dean? This whole setup has been nothing but one big charade. A clever one, but a trick nonetheless.”

            “Ahh, Cas, ixnay on insulting the crazy odgay –” Dean starts, nervously eying the god as it slowly becomes more and more enraged.

            Castiel, in typical fashion, ignores him. “No? Allow me to demonstrate.”

             And before Dean can stop him, Castiel pushes past a stunned Sam and with his palm open, brings it crashing down to fucking _backhand_ Godstiel – “Cas _, NO_!” Dean shouts – or at least, that’s what should have happened.

             What happens instead of the ringing crack of knuckle against bone is that Dean watches, dumbstruck, as Castiel’s hand slices cleaning through the creature’s head, passing harmlessly through as though what should be skin and bone is nothing more than air. After, Godstiel’s entire body becomes fuzzy and distorted, like a bad television reception.

              Dean doesn’t have a friggin’ clue what the hell is going on anymore. He can only gape stupidity, while Sam has the presence of mind to stutter out, “Cas! what’d you do?”

           “Nothing, Sam. It was merely a hologram, as I suspected,” Castiel confirms, with no small amount of self-satisfaction. “All you see here is an illusion, a cheap trick from an impotent deity,” He eyes the god dismissively, clearly no longer afraid of any of them being zapped to kingdom come. “You’re not even really here, are you? You’ve been trapped in the dungeon this entire time, debasing yourself for the sake of a few scares.”

          Scowling blackly, the false god flickers once before fully solidifying again, but the illusion is broken. Now that he knows what to look for, it’s amazing Dean didn’t see the signs before: that the figure casts no shadow, and no smell of bitter death permeates the air like a poisonous cloud despite the blood coating its body.

           “Well, I certainly didn’t see that one coming,” says Misha when no one else seems willing to speak quite yet, or where to go from here.

            “An illusion . . . How’d you work that one out, Velma?” Dean weakly asks Castiel, trying to get the tremors that are racking up his body from the remaining adrenaline under control. _We’re alive, we’re alive, Sam’s not going to die, we’re alive, we’re alive,_ he chants as a mantra inside his head; it’s the only way to calm himself down.

           “Given the trajectory of Sam’s bullet, and the fact that it was a point-blank shot, there should have been a reaction, even if there was no damage. But the bullet passed through without even a flinch, and that first tipped me off,” Castiel explains, and although he remains calmly collected, it’s clear to Dean that the angel has been practically bursting to spill this. “But I had to be sure its intangibility when both ways, that it wasn’t merely defensive warding and it was still capable of attack . . .  which of course it gave itself away when it monologued instead of simply vaporizing Sam on the spot.” He shoots Dean a knowing look, eyes lighting up proudly the way they do whenever he successfully gets a bit of pop culture. “The villain’s downfall is always their penchant for grandiose speeches,” Cas nods sagely.

            “And you couldn’t have revealed this sooner?!” Dean demands, nearly hysterically, even as relief floods into him. “I nearly had a heart attack, Cas!” He clutches at his chest for emphasis, just in case Cas still didn’t get it.

            Castiel has the good sense to look sheepish after that. “If I’d been wrong and acted too quickly, you and Sam would have been killed in front of me, Dean. So I had to be sure. My apologies for the delay, Sam.”

            “Y-Yeah, no problem, Cas,” Sam says shakily, wiping off the sweat that has accumulated on his brow with the back of his hand.

            “You will come to regret that,” the false God – or at least, its phantom – intones lowly at Castiel, its speech still clear and distinct despite its incorporeal form. With its attention focused unwaveringly on Cas, it doesn’t notice when Dean pokes an experimental finger through its back. “I’ll make sure of it.”

            “I’d like to see you try,” Castiel challenges, just as confident. It is possible Cas enjoys rattling the god’s cage more than he probably should, although Dean guesses he finds something therapeutic about it, releasing steam that’s been pent up for years. It’s all kinds of hot really, and normally Dean would step back to properly appreciate the snark, but Godstiel still has the crafty gleam in his eye, and Dean can’t shake his uneasiness that stirs inside him when he thinks of Godstiel as a big fat spider staring at the juicy little flies caught in its web.

            “How are you pulling this off?” Dean says instead. “Got a projector hidden in the corner?” He smirks nastily. “Cas is right; this is pathetic, even for you. Good to know all those wards can knock you down a few pegs.”

            In an attempt to save face, Godstiel pulls itself up straight, shoulders rolled arrogantly back, blue gaze cool. “I am the New God, Dean; projecting my form into another room is so paltry of my vast power that it’s barely worth demeaning myself for,” it responds haughtily.

            “So why make the effort? Miss me that much?” he asks, expecting a scathing reply in return. What he gets instead is much more disturbing.

            “Yes,” the god-that-is-Cas-but-isn’t replies with alarming honesty, and it brings Dean up short. He shoots a glance at Sam, at Castiel, but they both seem as mystified and disquieted as he is. “Isn’t it obvious, Dean? I needed to speak to you, Dean and since you refuse to come visit me, I had to make due with so-called ‘cheap tricks.’”

             Dean covers up how deeply unsettled he’s become with his usual snark, although even to his ears it sounds forced. “Aw, I’m touched. You should have written me a postcard.”

            The god tilts its head as it scrutinizes Dean, the motion insect-like. It doesn’t seem to have heard Dean’s acerbic response. “I’m very lonely, Dean. I’ve waited for you to return to me, in the dark and in the cold. But still you _ignore_ me.”

            “Yeah, well, I’ve been busy,” Dean tosses out casually, unnerved and wishing he has his machete wrapped tight in his fist. This is easily the most civil conversation he’s ever had with Godstiel, and it’s seriously creeping him out. “Are you really trying to tell me that all this has been just one big cry for attention?” Dean whistles lowly. “Wow, you really are a regular prima donna. You’ll never win Prom Queen with that attitude.”

            For a moment, its gaze heats up until its eye are like two flames, blazing with a bottomless hunger that Dean has never seen on Castiel’s face, not even when Famine zapped Cas back when he was an angel and he stuffed his face with the daily meat production of Midwestern Burger King. It’s downright predatory, not unlike how Leviathan gazed at Dean as it stalked closer to him. Abomination, that’s what this thing is. Nothing more and nothing less.

             In hindsight, that’s when Dean should have realized something was up, and then perhaps the fallout of what happened next could have been avoided.

            On second thought, maybe not. Maybe this was inevitable, from the moment Dean told Sam not to tell Cas about Jimmy. A trap devised by Dean’s own hand.

            “I know you have, Dean. Very busy, in fact. It’s a wonder you have time for sleep,” the dark god replies easily, watching Dean carefully. “So very busy that I’m sure even you’ve noticed, Castiel.” Its gaze flickers to Cas, who is frowning, and Dean tenses when the corner of the god’s bloodless mouth pulls up at the side to form a devious smirk. “It made you curious, which is why you came _crawling_ to me when Dean refused to bring you into his confidence. You still want to know what Dean’s been up to, human?”

            “Hey!” Dean barks out, aware of sweat breaking on the back of his neck, because, _oh no oh no oh no oh no._ “We don’t have any more time to listen to you spout garbage.”

            “Oh, I think you can, Dean,” it hisses at him, a glimmer of anger flashes across its face. “For all the time you’ve spent avoiding me, preferring the company of the pretty little vessel and the angel, I think the least you own me is a few minutes of your time. Oh! I almost forgot – the Leviathan, too.” It clicks its tongue against the roof of its mouth, slowly shaking its head. “I always knew you had a large appetite, Dean, but even I could never have guess you could be so depraved.”

             The blood flowing through Dean’s body seems to congeal all at once, slowing his heart rate to a crawl, stealing his breath.

            “What’re you – You glitching over there, Sparky?” he bluffs in a show of confidence he doesn’t remotely feel, licking nervously at his lips before he can catch himself. He studiously avoids eye contact with Sam, who is silently screaming at Dean to _shut up_ , and Castiel, who eyes Dean with an expression of deep confusion . . . and keen interest.

            That depraved smile grows larger and Dean is struck with the gut-sinking thought: _It planned this. All of this, right up to this point_ , _and I walked right into it_. “Oh, I think you know very well what I’m talking about, Dean. Why don’t you share with the class?”

            “Dean, what is he talking about?” Castiel asks, not taking his eyes off the God. “Dean?”

            “He’s talking out of his ass, don’t listen to him, Cas. Jimmy’s in California with his family, remember?”

            “But . . .  that’s not what you told me,” Castiel says slowly.

             Dean whips his head around, finds Castiel staring uncertainly at him. “What?”

             It all comes rushing back to Dean – too little too late to realize his grave mistake.

“Back in the bathroom – you confessed that Jimmy never made it to California, but you were about to tell me what happened before we were interrupted,” Castiel reminds him calmly, still level-headed, but he’s backing Dean into a corner all the same. “Remember? He –” Castiel tilts his head at the smirking god “– told me to ask you about Jimmy, which I did, and _you_ said that Jimmy and Leviathan and the angel weren’t here anymore, whatever that means. That you found a way to beat the medallion.”

            “Oh,” Dean exclaims, thinking quickly. “W-well, I know that’s wh-what I said, but what I meant was . . . uhhh –”

            "Dean, you also told Daphne that the spell had taken Jimmy away," Emmanuel says slowly, reluctant to call Dean out. "Why wouldn't you want the Novaks to know Jimmy was here . . . unless he really isn't?"

             "'Emmanuel -"

            “ _Something happen to Jimmy_?” Dean hears from the huddle of clones, more whispers drifting over and slipping past his ears. “ _I thought Dean said he went to the Novaks_.”

            “ _Looks like Jimmy boy didn’t make it_.”

            “ _No, Dean said he did – why would Dean lie_?”

            “Yes, Dean, why would you lie?” the false God asks him sharply, and suddenly Dean is his with the sinking feeling that the tables have been turned and now Dean’s the one standing on trial, surrounded on all sides by the others. “Are you and Castiel not on the same team anymore?”

            “What?” Dean shouts incredulously, panic making it increasingly difficult to talk himself out of this spot of trouble. “That’s ridiculous – I’m not lying!”

            “Then surely you have no problem telling the rest of us where the little vessel has run off to?” Godstiel asks with shrewdly, and Dean opens his mouth to fire back with another vague denial, but Castiel is suddenly storming forward, putting himself chest-to-chest with his deranged doppelganger.

           “I grow tired of your vague insinuations against Dean. Either speak plainly, or I will march into that dungeon and cut out your tongue with my blade. It won’t kill you, but I’m very much confident it’ll still hurt like hell.” He leans closer. “And don’t think I won’t enjoy it.”

            It’s a great threat, scary as hell and to the point (and just _maybe_ a possible indicator for need of future therapy sessions), but the god only laughs in Cas’s face, unfazed. “Poor, clueless Castiel. Always ready to rush to Dean Winchester’s defense at a moment’s notice. You know, that was my problem too, until I unearthed the truth about the Winchesters, and saw them for what they really are. Manipulative, selfish, ready to hang out to dry the minute you fail to be of use to them. You remember, don’t you? All of that’s changed now, huh? Dean’s never lies to you, right, Castiel?”

            A muscle jumps in Cas’s cheek. “You have ten seconds to finish. Ten, nine –”

Clearly refusing to let Castiel upstage it in dramatics, Godstiel spits out, “Gossip travels fast through the grapevine, and despite my temporary imprisonment, I know exactly what Dean here has been doing behind your back.” The god tilts its head thoughtfully in an exact parody of Castiel. “Or, if we use charmingly crude human slang for a moment, _who_ he has doing behind your back.”

            Castiel’s brows furrow deeper, gaze flickering to Dean’s uncertainly. Meanwhile, Dean can’t even breath, can’t move, tongue glue to the roof of his mouth and frozen in place by unbridled panic. “I . . . I don’t get what . . .”

            The god actually rolls its eyes. “ _Fucking_ , Castiel. Dean has been fucking the other-you’s.”

            “That’s utterly absurd,” Castiel responds with quiet fury.

            “Really, ask him yourself,” the false God invites, nodding at Dean.

            It’s like all the noise has been sucked out of the room following its proclamation, everyone frozen in place as all eyes remain fixed on the false god . . . and then, slowly, they all turn towards Dean. Waiting for his denial. His derision of such an outrageous lie.

            “Dean?” he can hear Emmanuel question timidly from behind him, and Dean inwardly winces, hyperaware of Misha and the other Castiels watching him intently. Whenever Dean tired – and failed – to imagine himself coming clean to Castiel, it was never with the audience of the other clones.

            He can’t do this, not now, not like this –

            “Dean?” The quiet voice is unmistakably gravellier than Emmanuel’s soft-spoken tones, and when Dean glances up he finds Castiel hesitantly moving closer to him, staring plaintively at Dean. His eyes are so wide and blue, the unwavering faith them not yet broken. Somehow, Castiel still believes that Dean will clear this all up, clear away the nasty lies.

            Dean stares back . . . and then drops his gaze. “It wasn’t like that – I wanted to tell you, Cas, you gotta believe me.”

            “Dean,” Castiel gasps softly, horrified.

            Sam, bless him, jumps in at this, coming to Dean’s aid. “He had to, Cas, Dean stumbled upon the cure. It was the only way he could –” But Castiel cuts him off.

            “You knew, too, Sam?” If Cas sounded betrayed before, now he sounds absolutely devastated.

            Sam falters, eyes widening as he realizes his slip-up. “Oh. Well, I . . .” Sam trails off, shifting uncomfortably on his feet until he guiltily adverts his gaze, and as Dean watches helplessly he feels shame slip down into his stomach like a ball of ice. Sam _warned_ him this would happen, and now here he is taking the fall for Dean’s mistakes. _Again_.

            “Cas . . .” Dean starts plaintively, mouth sandpaper dry. _Please,_ he prays inside his head. _Hear me out._

            Castiel stares at him for a moment longer before something seems to shut down inside him, like a shadow passing over the angel. His face turns deceptively blank, neutral. Cold. Mouth drawn into a furious line, Castiel deliberately turns his head away, gaze turned down, breathing heavily through his nose. His hands shake where they’re clenched at his sides.

             If he still had his wings, Dean is under no delusions that Cas would still be standing here.

            Shaking in fury, Dean whips his attention back to the smirking God, who is watching Dean expectantly, crowing over his victory. He watches in disbelief as its face splits like a rotten gourd into a triumphant grin. Checkmate.

            “I expect to see you soon, Dean. Don’t keep me waiting.”

            The god’s swift departure is absent of the usual swooshing of giant wings, its incorporeal form instead guttering out just like a ghost flickering from earthly vision.

            The silence it leaves in its wake is ringing, like a bomb has just been detonated in their midst – which, yeah, Dean supposes, that’s pretty much exactly what happened.

            And although it was Godstiel who opened its big fat mouth, Dean can’t help but feel it was _him_ who had his finger on the button this entire time.

            Breathing hard, Dean doesn’t move, aware of everyone’s eyes on him.

            He doesn’t know what makes him do it – a sixth sense that prickles his skin from being watched, or just dumb chance – but Dean turns around and finds Castiel watching him. He expects Castiel’s expression to be closed-off, cold. What he receives instead is so much worse.

             It’s like having to tell Castiel he’s being kicked out of the bunker all over again.

            Aware of how his heart no longer beats comfortably in his chest but now frantically in his throat, Dean calls out, “Cas,” and takes a hesitant step forward.

            But Castiel is just shaking his head, pulling away without a word.

            “Cas! Wait!” He throws a pleading hand out, but he can’t make his feet work anymore. “I can explain! It’s – It’s not –”

             Castiel only shakes his head once more before he’s turning stiffly around, striding out of the library without a word. Not running, but with jerky movements like he can’t physically stand to be in the room a second longer. And then just like that, Cas is gone.

            Dean is still staring wordlessly at the pocket of air his best friend has occupied when he hears the snap of a synthetic camera shutter. It jars him out of his stupor and he whips his head around to find Misha pointing his phone at him, the camera lens facing his way. He flips the phone back around to rapidly tap away on the keyboard.

            “ _Oh boy, Mishamigos. Not-Jensen just got himself D-U-M-P-E-D! Hashtag: Awkward._ ” Misha declares aloud as he types. Several moments of strained silence pass before Misha peeks his head up from the phone, catching Dean’s thunderous expression. “What? Too soon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this arc took way longer than I thought. Let's get back to the sex and more lighthearted stuff. (Ha ha, who am I kidding? this fic got so dark so fast...) See you guys in about a month (hopefully . . . )
> 
> Notes: Just as a quick note, I have never approved of Dean’s decision to violate Lisa and Ben’s free will at the end of season 6, but I believe that in this one case, he was able to convince himself that the ends justify the means. And hey, at least she ain't dead....
> 
> Come speculate about Season 11 with me on tumblr (yes, I'm still watching. Until the end of the line!!): I-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs  
> (I also track tag #nine of a kind on tumblr)


	16. Emmanuel ... and Meta!Misha (What's French for Three?) Part1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Remember, Dean,” Charlie sing-songs. “Good friends will trash-talk your exes with you, but best friends will get you laid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no excuse for why posting has slowed down tremendously over the last few months, other than to say there are days (too many) where all I have is the energy and mental focus to open the word doc but not enough to write. This isn't even going into all the personal drama I've been forced to deal with over the last month. Here's to a better year in 2016 :P  
> I am trying to pace myself better with other projects, and I've been working on something for the rare pair bigbang so keep your eye out for that in March. :)  
> No smut, but smut next chapter.  
> Warning for the author unfairly using her knowledge of 10x21 to tug at audience heart strings.  
> Unbeta'ed, so everything is subject to rewrites.

          “So . . . did I miss anything interesting?”

          Reluctantly dragging his gaze up from the laptop that’s perched on his stomach from where he’s stretched out lengthwise on his bed, Dean can’t even muster up the effort to glare at Charlie as she peeks her head in through his bedroom door, the toe of her boot tapping nervously against the door frame. Her cropped fiery hair is windswept and a ridiculously long, multicolored striped scarf hangs from her neck, cheeks pink like she’s just come in from the cold. Or stepped through a multi-dimensional portal from a fairy world and is experiencing a drastic shift in temperature, definitely one of the two.

           He doesn’t verbally respond, but the expression on his face must say all he needs to. “That bad, huh?” she winces.

           Dean rolls his eyes at the understatement, his attention drifting back to the laptop screen where _Star Trek: TOS_ is playing on Netflix. It’s the sucky third season, but hey, _Star Trek_ is _Star Trek_ , and if Dean focuses then it’s almost easy to lose himself in the snappy dialogue and the cheesy 60’s special effects and Captain Kirk’s skintight space-pants. If he’s lucky, maybe this Netflix binge will just rot his brain right through to the stem until it puddles out of his ears - that way he won’t have to think anymore, so his thoughts won't stray back to replaying the last twelve hours over and over like a reel of film in his head, of Emmanuel, Daphne, Godstiel . . . and Castiel’s stricken expression right before it dissolved into something cold and detached and as distant as a star.

            He hasn’t had much success yet, but he's got nothing but time to kill.

            “Oh nuts, I always miss all the good bits,” Charlie laments as she fiddles with her scarf, unbothered by Dean’s peevishness. Despite her outward glibness, however, her tone carries a note of commiseration. Dean doesn’t want it, her sympathy, didn’t fucking _ask_ for it, just as he didn’t want Sam’s.

 _Speaking of which . . ._ "Sam put you up to this?” he asks tersely, looking sharply up at her. No point beating around the bush.

           “What? _Noo_! What - what makes you say that? Why would he do such a – do such a thing?” Charlie fumbles out haltingly, eyes darting around to land anywhere but on Dean. “It’s not like he’s worried that you’re going to do something incredibly stupid or anything.” She catches his supremely skeptical face, smiles uneasily. “Can’t I just want to catch up with my favorite handmaiden and regale him with tales of my excellent adventures in a magical universe?”

           "Charlie."

            The smile holds for a few more moments before folding in defeat. “Please, don't be mad," she says quietly. He remains silent, his gaze steely, but she continues. "Okay, yeah, so maybe Sam caught up with me and we talked for just the _tiniest bit_ – and he might have mentioned something about God Cas letting the Big Secret slip -"

            Dean snorts harshly, his suspicions confirmed. “Let me guess – Sam just couldn’t _wait_ to tell you how it all went down. Bet you all had a good laugh about how stupid Dean’s stupid plans came back around and bit him on the ass –”

             “That’s not true and you know it,” Charlie says evenly, but there’s an edge to her voice that wasn’t there before. “Yell at me all you want, but don’t take this out on Sam. He’s only looking out for you,” she adds in a quieter voice, her chin lifting up by a defiant inch as she obstinately holds her grounds. “As am I.”

             “Yeah, whatever,” Dean says dismissively, gaze already straying back to the screen. “I don’t sign up for the pep talk, Dr. Phil, so you can just am-scray.” He flicks his hand in a shooing motion at her.

            Charlie gasps, appalled. “ _Dean Winchester._ ”

            Contrary to what everyone probably thinks, Dean _is_ fully aware he’s sulking in his room like some overgrown, _waahhh-the-world-doesn’t-understand-me-and-my-emo-music-I need-a-hug-and-a-mocha-latte!!!_ teenager, but fuck it. After the day he’s had, he’s earned a little self-pity, as well as the chance to curl up and lick at his wounds in peace. So here he is, holed up in his room with nothing but the Starship Enterprise crew and his own troubled conscious for company, and it’s arguably the best damn decision he’s made in the last twenty-four hours. 

             For the most part, his self-imposed exile had done the trick; the only visitor he’s had was Sam, and that was hours ago. Or, if you want to get technical, Dean hadn’t actually _seen_ Sam, as he’d petulantly refused to open the door despite Sam’s entreaties, but Sam being Sam had refused to take ‘no’ for an answer, doggedly hovering by Dean’s door for at least half an hour, first cajoling and then outright pleading for Dean to come out. Dean’s lack of response had been its own answer, though, and Sam had (eventually) given up and left, but not before off-handedly mention that he’d just thought Dean should know that Cas – who was at that moment locked in a spare bedroom with enough cold syrup to knock his flu into next week – had told Sam he would be refreshing the wards in the morning . . . once he was on the other side. Sam then mumbled something about new leads popping up on fallen angels in Pittsburgh and Cas wanting to ‘thoroughly’ (Cas’s words, apparently) investigate them for himself. Sam might have said something else after that, but Dean had turned up the volume on the laptop at that point, shutting Sam out.

             He certainly doesn't blame Cas for wanting to get the hell out of Dodge; Dean wouldn’t want to be around himself, either.

            As for the rest of the clones, Dean hasn’t seen hide nor hair (nor feather) of any of them since he’d beat a hasty retreat from the library hours ago, their gazes abruptly finding other places to stare at when he had dared make eye contact, but it’s reasonable conjecture that they are all avoiding him, protecting their virtue now that they know Dean’s perverted secret. Well, if he’s being honest, Dean doubts Future Cas and Misha actually care other than to snicker at him behind his back, but Crazy Cas had refused to meet Dean’s gaze . . .  And aw, shit – _Emmanuel_ . . . the guy was just starting to trust Dean and now . . .? Dean’ll be lucky if Manny isn't at this very moment begging Daphne to take him back, just to get as far away from Dean as possible.

            So as the new resident pariah of the bunker, Dean had taken it upon himself to sequester himself away from the rest of its inhabitants, as much for his sake as theirs.

            Charlie Bradbury, however, has never been one to wait around for invitations to fall into her lap, and Dean should have known better than to think a temper tantrum could deter her.

            “Well then, I guess it's a good thing I didn’t come here to be your shoulder to cry on. Since you don’t want a ‘pep talk,’ you wouldn’t mind me interrupting your brood-fest and leeching off your Netflix for a while?” Paying no mind to the tension that must be radiating off Dean like a bad smell, Charlie flounces into the room without so much as bothering to shut the door behind her, shrugging off amber Metroid hoodie but choosing to keep the scarf, dumping her messenger bag by the nightstand until she stands imperiously over him with hands on her hips, all menacing five and a half feet of her.

            “Scoot.” He gives her an unimpressed _look_ , and Charlie easily returns it tenfold without so much as a flinch. “I said, _scoot_.” 

             Dean holds his ground a moment longer before eventually rolling his eyes and acquiescing. “ _So much for respecting your elders_ ,” he grumbles as he shifts to the side of the mattress so Charlie can plop down and stretch out comfortably beside him, kicking her heavy boots onto the floor.

             "Don't scuff my floor, Bradbury," he grouses.

            “Yeah yeah, pipe down, old man,” she teases in return, shoving the one end of her ridiculous scarf playfully across his stomach. She peeks over his shoulder to see the laptop screen, and her tone is incredulous when she asks, “The third season? _Really_ , Dean? Couldn’t we at least put on _Voyager?_ It’s been, like . . . _two weeks_ since I last watched! Please, Dean, I need my Janeway fix” she pleads, batting her eyelashes at him as her hand sneaks under his arm. “Here, lemme just –”

            Without removing his gaze from the screen he casually threatens, “You know, they just added the new movie, the one with Benihana Cucumberpatch. We could always watch that instead, y’know–”

            Charlie hastily yanks her hand back as though having received a nasty electric shock. “Now, now! No need to be hasty!” she backpedals. “Season three is, um, fine. Just not the one about Spock’s stolen brain – that’s where I draw the line. Unlike you, I have standards.”

            The barest suggestion of a smirk tugs at his mouth, but luckily Dean remembers he's supposed to be miserable, and he obstinately beats it back before Charlie can see.

            They fall into a silence that could be mistaken as companionable if not for the tension that still lingers in the air. The only sounds come from the laptop as the show plays on, where Kirk and Uhura are currently locking lips. Through the long hour Dean keeps one eye on the screen and the other glued on Charlie, expecting at any moment to be grilled extensively on the events of the day, but she remains engrossed in the show, laughing at all the right moments, seemingly ignoring Dean completely. Gradually, bit by bit, Dean is able to relax, focus fully on the show. 

             What Dean should have realized was that Charlie was merely allowing her thoughts to percolate, sizing up the situation, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. She's a crafty fucker like that.

            Her chosen moment comes during the small break between episodes, and when the end credits begin to roll Charlie shifts beside Dean, ducking her head as she begins to pick nervously at her sparkly purple nail polish. “Dean,” she begins carefully, “I know you're allergic to feelings or whatever and the last thing you wanna do is talk –”

            “So let’s don’t and say we did,” Dean suggests, thinking his is a fine idea, but Charlie only talks over him.

             “– but I _have_ to know . . .  How are you doing?” A wrinkle of worry appears between her eyebrows as she glances up at him. “ _Really_?”

             “Aces,” Dean answers woodenly, reaching forward to pointedly click _Next_.

             If Charlie is disappointed by his dogged evasion, she hides it well. “You must be, if you haven’t hit up Jack, Jim, Johnny, or Jose for a late-night booty call,” she comments, eyes sweeping the room for empty bottles and coming up empty.

            Dean grinds his teeth, a vein throbbing angrily in his forehead. “That’s because some dirty rat snuck in when I wasn't here and made off with my stash,” Dean replies, seething at the memory of kicking into his room and making a beeline for the false bottom in the bottom-right drawer of his desk, only to find not even a fifth of whiskey left. Instead, all that had been left behind was a scrap of paper with the letters I O U written out in a chicken-scratch scrawl. “Five guesses who.”

           “Oh. That makes sense, I guess. That guy is kind of douche-canoe,” Charlie admits weakly, losing steam. It’s not until another three minutes into the next episode that she regroups, doubling her efforts. Quietly, so that Dean has to strain his ears to hear her over the laptop, she murmurs, “He won’t stay away forever, you know. He’ll come back.”

            Dean scoffs. “Charlie, I don’t think that free-loading hippie is gonna give me back my booze anytime soon. He’s probably sucked it all down like a preschooler with a Capri-Sun pouch by now anyway –”

            With an exasperated huff, she boffs him smartly on his shoulder. “Not _that_ Cas,” Charlie corrects impatiently. “ _Your_ Cas. The one you're eventually going to have to belly-crawl out of this room for so you can grovel for his forgiveness?”

            “Oh, so now he’s _my_ Cas? Didn’t realize we’d exchanged promise rings,” Dean mocks snidely in a fumbling attempt to cover how much her candidness caught him off guard, fiddling with the frayed patch on the left knee of his jeans so he doesn’t have to look at her – or the chair that still remains angled next to his bed, now devoid of the Angel Castiel who had guarded Dean in his unconsciousness. Just thinking about him has something twinging inside Dean.

            _I don’t hate you, Cas,_ Dean had said in this very spot. _Not even a little. You know that._

            He also remembers Castiel’s blunt response, clear as day, _But I don’t,_ and the twinge grows into a sharp throb of pain, guilt bleeding through the wound. At the time, the possibility hadn't even occurred to him, so wrapped up Dean had been in his own sad state of affairs, but now he wonders: Does the real Cas possibly also think Dean hates him?

             _Well, he sure as hell ain’t sticking around to find out_ , Dean thinks ruefully, chewing on the inside of his cheek. And if somewhere out on the road Cas decides that he's fed up with Winchester bullshit and is ready to wash his hands of Dean entirely, well, it would be no less than what he deserves. Dean winces when he bites down hard enough to taste blood.

            “You know I can tell you're thinking about Cas, right?" Charlie asks dryly, smiles when Dean startles guiltily.She scrutinizes him closely, clicking her tongue. "You always get that deeply brooding, sappy romance novel cover look."

              "So, what, you're a mind-reader now?" Dean says with feigned disinterest.

              "Uh, no. I just own a functioning pair of eyes. Duh." She shifts around on the bed noisily, bouncing the mattress around until she's seated cross-legged beside him with her hands on her knees. Her eyes are alight with excitement – like she’s _happy for him_ or something equally absurd. When he remains committed to his stony silence, she huffs impatiently, shaking his knee. “Come _on_ , Dean. You may have fooled everyone else including yourself but you can't fool me. I’ve read the _Supernatural_ books cover to back enough times to know there’s a lot more going on between you two than you’ve ever let on!”  

             “ _What the hell do those fucking books say about us?”_ Dean sputters, pausing the show with a sharp tap of his fingers to whip his head around.

             Completely unprepared for Dean's outburst, Charlie throws her palms up in supplication, backtracking wildly. “Um, not a lot, really, I swear! It’s just that . . . y’know, every now and then, I’ve, well . . . noticed a – a line or two that suggests that there’s . . . that there’s something more than platonic dudebro friendship going on with you and Cas, that's all." She says this all in a rush, as though Dean will react better if he hears it quickly. “I mean, it’s all in the subtext, and if you’ve got your heteronormativity goggles strapped on tight, it’s pretty _blink and you’ll miss it_ . . . But really, Dean,” Charlie says, cocking a knowing eyebrow at him. “You can only yell at a guy to ‘blow you’ so many times before people start to draw their own conclusions.”

            Head falling back until it smacks the headboard, Dean curses fervently under his breath. “Fucking – _Chuck_.” 

            Charlie snorts softly, patting him consolingly on the knee. “You should see what they write about you and Cas on the forums.”

            Dean knows he shouldn’t ask, but since Charlie’s looks fit to burst if she doesn't blab the dirty details soon to him anyways, he may as well get it over with, like pulling a splinter from the pad of a thumb. Sharp and quick. “ _They_?”

            Charlie smiles impishly. “Your legions of adoring fans, of course. The _Supernatural_ fandom has a _thriving_ meta community.”

            Dean shudders, remembering Chuck's convention that he and Sam had accidentally stumbled upon once. “Oh, believe me, we've met. Definitely not an experience I ever wanna repeat. Bunch of grown-ass adults running around in costumes who seriously picked the wrong guys to hero-worship . . ." he mutters. "God, It’s the friggin’ Sam/Dean thing all over again . . . And that ‘blow me’ thing was _one time_!”

            “Yeah, and then later you told him, and I quote, ‘Not for nothing, Cas, but the last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid,’" she parrots, dropping her voice to an over exaggerated  baritone before asking normally, "so whose fault is it really here?”

            Dean narrows his eyes at her. “The fact you can repeat that verbatim is horrifying enough. And I do _not_ sound like that." Sighing wearily, he dangles a hand over the edge of the bed, fingers grasping around for his whiskey bottle before remembering it isn’t there, because the world hates his guts and takes pleasure in watching him suffer. It takes everything in him not to launch his fist into the wall. 

            “I’ve simply done my research. Word of advice, though? Avoid Tumblr unless you want your brain to end up like melted Play-dough _,_ ” Charlie adds sagely.

            “You mock my pain,” Dean accuses sourly, running his hands over his face, greasy with sweat. Heat flares like the bite of fire ants at the crook of his right elbow, and he surreptitiously rubs it against his side, hoping Charlie doesn't notice.

            “Nope, just enjoy inciting it,” she says brightly before going serious again, tucking a lank of ginger hair behind her ear. “So . . . how long?"

             For a moment, Dean entertains the seductive idea of continuing to play dumb, but the fancy passes by while Dean grimly waves at it. After all Dean has done to Cas today, the least he can do is be honest in this one thing. Besides, he's just . . . he's just so goddamn _tired_ of pretending otherwise.

            "Believe me, kiddo. If I knew, I'd tell you. Some days it feels like forever." Saying it, finally having his most closely guarded secret out in the open (even if he can't quite choke out the L word just yet), Dean had expected to feel a backlash of immediate regret, to feel like he'd just handed over a weapon that can easily be used against him. What Dean had not expected was to feel like a fucking ton of bricks has been lifted off his chest and letting him breathe easy for the first time in ages. 

             "Wow," Charlie breathes softly in awe, smiling shyly at Dean. "And here I thought Dorothy and I were pretty epic. But I guess it's pretty hard to beat falling head over heels with an eons-old angel that rescued you from Hell. He’s kind of like the Han Solo to your Leia,” she says with a dreamy look in her eyes. “Which is appropriate, 'cause then that makes Sam Chewie. Oh, can I be Mara Jade?”

             “Okay, for one, your metaphor sucks, I'm always Solo. End of story. And two, Cas and I, we’re not . . .” Dean trails off and shakes his head, makes an inarticulate noise of frustration. His stomach is twisting with a discomfort that has nothing to do with his lack of dinner, and he tries not to fidget. “Cas and I aren’t like  . . . like _that_. We’re just . . .” He searches for the right word, as _friends_ seems at best woefully inferior, and at worse no longer completely accurate, given how Cas may no longer consider themselves as such. Castiel had once described himself and Dean as having a _profound bond_ , whatever the fuck that means, but Cas had also been working with Crowley behind the Winchesters back at the time, so hell if Dean knows he’d meant it. It’s not like he and Cas ever sat down with a cold one and hashed all that out. No, there’d always been another threat on the horizon, popping up like a whack-a-mole whenever the last one had been eliminated, forcing all the hurt and bitter fights to be patched up with duct Band-Aids instead of stiches, allowing them to fester and putrify . . . Dean signs sharply in frustration, annoyed that Charlie seems intent at picking at old wounds that are best left alone. “Look,” he says finally. “For better or worse, I’ve got Cas’s back and he knows I’ve got his. Some days that’s all we’ve got and it’s how we’ve survived against all odds this long, and it’s all we need. No time for chocolate and cream cake. It’s . . . it’s better that way, okay? Hunters, we don't have time for any of that, we just -"

             "Make cow-eyes at each other from across the room when the other isn't looking?" Charlie suggests tartly, evidently not buying what Dean's selling.

              "Charlie, you don't understand -"

             “What don’t I understand, Dean?” Charlie challenges. “Hmm? That every time I see you and him in the same room you light up like a kid at Comic-Con and you get this sickeningly sappy grin on your face? That you’re sitting here alone in your room and all you’re missing from completing the cliché away is a tub of Ben and Jerry’s in one hand and a mixtape made up of Adele and the Cure in the other?”

              . . . Well, when she puts it _that_ way.

              She leans closer, brushing her bangs back away from her face. “Look, Dean, it's not like I'm accusing you and Cas of doing battle with each other's light sabers," Charlie says, plowing past Dean's choked sputters, “but from what I’ve seen, you guys are the real deal, no matter what label you want or don’t want attached to it, and if you think I’m going stand by and watch you let it slip from between your fingers just because you’re too chickenshit to woman up and fix your mistakes, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

              Heavy silence follows in the wake of Charlie's bold declaration, wherein the very molecules in the air around them seem to be holding their breath, waiting for Dean's violent explosion of fury . . . but he only snorts, shaking his head in wry amusement while his mouth pulls up into a crooked grin. “I never could get anything pass you, could I?”

              Charlie gives him a sympathetic look. “Dean, you know I love you, but I gotta tell ya: You might be many things, but subtle ain't one of them." She pats him on the knee.

              Dean can't meet her eyes when he asks the question that's been niggling in the back of his head for a lot longer than the last hour. “Did you know? Not just about my thing with Cas,” he clarifies. He can barley hear his own hushed words over the hammering of his heart, the ringing in his ears. He throat is dry, a start contrast to his clammy palms, and goddammit, this shouldn't be this hard. “About . . . me?”

             Charlie nods, eyeing him carefully. “I suspected,” she admits slowly. 

             Dean releases a long breath. "Good. That's - cool. How long?"

             “Honestly? Probably since, well, the security guard at Dick Roman’s office. Your flirting advice worked a little too well, if you know what I mean,” she explains when Dean shoots a surprised look at her. She smirks teasingly at him, but her expression is fond. It has something in Dean's chest tying itself up in knots. “But," she continues in a brighter tone, towing them away from the somberness o the moment, bless her, "you never brought it up, so I just kept my mouth shut and figured you were so deep in the closet you had a timeshare on a condo in Narnia.”

             "And here I thought I was being so sneaky,” Dean tries to joke, but it comes out more bitter than he’d anticipated.

              “Dean, it’s not like you’re giving off big ole bi vibes or whatever,” Charlie says, guessing the path Dean’s thoughts have taken. “No stranger in a dive bar is gonna look at you and think, ‘Wow, I bet that dude likes dick sometimes.’ Not unless you want them to, of course,” she adds with a significant look, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at him. Absurdly, Dean finds himself grinning, appreciating her frankness about a subject he's danced around his entire life. "I assume I'm right in thinking Sam doesn't know?"

             "Now see, I thought so, too, but if he's making bets with the King of Hell on whether or not I'm gonna ask Cas to be my date to the senior sockhop, he must know something's up." Dean huffs, rolling his eyes. "Kid's too damn smart - and nosy - for his own good."

            "Well, even so . . . You should tell him," Charlie suggests after a moment, voice quiet. "When you're ready, I mean - and after you clear all this crap between you two . . . I think it would really mean a lot to him."

             Dean keeps his response deliberately flip to throw her off the scent of the ball of warmth that's steadily growing inside of him, its light leaking through the corners of his twitching lips. "And you call _me_ sappy . . ."

             He's forced to twist out of the way when Charlie aims an elbow for his ribs. "Um, _excuse_ me, I'm not the one who got caught having sex with the uber-crush's clones," she retorts blithely, unperturbed by the gimlet-eyed look Dean shoots at her. "Don't knock my sappiness, Winchester. I've got a bombshell girlfriend; I'm allowed. Besides, you're gonna need all the sappiness you can get if you're going to win Cas back and ride off in the sunset together."

             "I don't need sappiness for that, kiddo, I need . . ." He makes an artless hand gesture in the air to signify _pulling the most amazing apology that will ever be seen by this or any other generation out of my ass_. "I dunno, whatever the angel equivalent is to diamond earnings and Applebee's," Dean replies dryly. 

             Charlie squints. "Dude, no offense - but no wonder you've never been in a long-term relationship besides the one chick. You kinda suck at it."

             Dean shoots her a sour look. “I thought you came here to make me feel better, not pour salt on my wounds.”

             In response, Charlie gives a very unlady-like snort. “No, I came here to pull your head out of your ass even if it takes me a crowbar to do it. Hopefully it won’t come to that and you’ll just take my advice instead and go  _apologize_. Like emotionally-responsible adults  _do_.”

             "Charlie, you don't understand. It's not that simple. Cas and I . . ." Dean trails off, shaking his head until he hacks out a sharp bark of derisive laughter. "Things have gotten so fucked up now between us, I don't even know where to start - today was only the tip of the trash heap." He smiles lifelessly at her. "Did he tell you I tossed his ass out of the bunker after he nearly _died_?"

              "No, but Sam filled me in on the deets," Charlie says grimly. "But tell me, Dean, what did Castiel say when you confessed. Did he forgive you?"

              Sam's tortured screams ringing through the bunker. Castiel's sad eyes focuses unwaveringly on Dean. _You did what you thought was right_. "He shouldn't have," Dean responds vehemently. He looks away. "Stupid bastard . . . He should have taken his chance and run like hell from us -" _me_ "- the first chance he got."

              “Oh, Dean.” Without prompting, Charlie lays her head on Dean’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Her warmth seeps into him, her hair smelling of coconut shampoo as she rubs a hand up and down his back. “For such a wickedly smart guy, you can be such an idiot,” she laments.

              He hiccups out an unexpected sob-laugh that he valiantly tries to cover up with a cough. “Thanks, kiddo.”

             "Still, though . . . maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way, but frankly this whole clones business doesn't seem nearly as bad as that. And if he was able to forgive you once -"

             "No." Dean shakes his head adamantly, denying. "You didn't see his face -"

              "Dean," Charlie says sharply. "Do you think there's even the tiniest chance Cas will forgive you?"

              _Of course he might_ , Dean thinks. _Stupid, feather-brained idiot that's too trusting for his own good_. "Maybe," is all Dean allows.

             "Then he will," Charlie says firmly, with a conviction Dean envies. "Take my advice and give Cas some space. Let him breathe. And when you both have cooler heads on your shoulders, you _talk_. You know." She grins wryly. "That thing Winchesters are allergic to that involves opening your piehole and ejecting sentences and ideas from it."

                _But what if that doesn't work?_ a very small voice in the back of Dean's head asks. Dean shies immediately away from the possibilities spun from those single six words.

               A small hand rests on the crook of Dean's elbow. “I don’t need to be a Professor X to know what you’re thinking, Dean, but what I  _can_  do is tell you with one hundred percent certainty,  _you’re wrong_  – You haven’t scared him off and haven’t broken anything that can’t be fixed.  One way or the other, Cas’ll come back on his own terms. I'm sure of it. Until then, you just got to give him time to cool his jets, sort through his own feelings. He’s human now, you know? To me that seems like a heavy load for someone not used to, well,  _feeling . . ."_ Charlie pauses for a long moment before biting her lip. "He looks sad sometimes, you know? When he thinks no one is looking. I think he's lonely.”

                Dean exhales gustily in an emotionally-drained heave. He reaches behind him to pull the wooden cross down from the shelf above his bed, twirling it around in his hands. It helps to keep his face wiped clean of emotion, to hide away how each word is a thorn that pierces and tears at him.  "Aren't we all?"

              A long, heavy moment passes before Charlie suggests innocently, ". . . Maybe to start off you should invite Cas to help send the clones back with you?"

              "Way to kill the moment stone-dead, Bradbury," Dean groans. 

              "At this point, it's one of our better plans, you gotta admit." Charlie snuggles in closer to press her forehead into the curve of Dean's neck, while he rests his chin on the crown of her head, arms engulfing her. "Just you wait, Dean. Ten years from now, when all of this is behind you, it'll be just you and Cas living together on a cabin by a lake, hunting vamps and ghosts during the week and baking pie on the weekends."

            "Oh, my God, stop," Dean pleads, but he's smiling now too, lopsided but there. "You're _delusional_."

             "See, there's my favorite handmaiden." He can feel the stretch of her smile against the skin of his throat. "And you'll invite Dory and me over for dinner every third Tuesday of the month. Sam's invited too, of course - he can come over with his fourteen dogs."

             Dean barks in laughter at that, and presses a kiss to the crown of her head, her hair tickling his nose. "Love you, kiddo." 

             Charlie hums in contentment, snuggling closer. "I know."

            They sit huddled together like that for many long minutes, limbs entangled, the laptop all but forgotten as it plays to a distracted audience. And, alright, as far as everything goes, It's not half-bad, Dean'll admit, if only in the privacy of his own head. It's not often that he gets this, a warm touch that isn't a prelude to more carnal activities, and as great as all the sex has been lately, this too is, well, nice. Dean is the first one to pull away, however, as he must, kissing Charlie again on her temple. "Alright, that's enough chick-flick moments for one day, kiddo. Any longer and I'm gonna grow a pair of boobs."

             "You know, there's probably a cursed teacup or sock some other thingamabob in this place that'll do that," Charlie says thoughtfully, then wrinkles her nose in distaste. "Still wouldn't date you, though, even if you went full chick. That'd be like making out with my sister. Y'know, if I had a sister."

            It's only in retrospect that Dean realizes Charlie's wildly off-tangent rambling might have had more to do with nervousness, and not her usual motormouth.   

            “So . . ." Charlie starts, picking at her fingernails again. "Now that we've got that all squared away, _I_ have a surprise for _you_."

            Dean starts groaning in disgust before the words are fully out of her mouth, wanting nothing more than to sink into the memory foam of the mattress. “Unless it's a six-hour block of guaranteed uninterrupted sleep, I don't want it.”

            "But you don't even know what it is yet! Will you at least take a look first?" she asks beseechingly, clasping her hands together. "Please, Dean, for me? Please please please _pleeeease_?"

            Dean heaves a long sigh, chin falling to his chest in defeat. ". . . I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

            Charlie's smile is crooked, secretive. "Nope, but you will thank me."

            Ignoring Dean’s skeptical look, Charlie does some gymnastics to reach over the bed without dragging herself over the edge, fingers tips reaching just enough to snag her phone from her messenger bag’s front pocket. She settles back against his side with her plunder secured in hand, punches a number on speed-dial and then brings the phone to her ear. “Hey, honeybee," she greets sweetly into the speaker. "Yeah – he’s cooled off. You can bring them in now.”

            Nothing about that sounds good. “Charlie, who the hell is _honeybee_ –?” 

            There is a _whoosh!_  of giant wings, a gale of wind forceful enough to lash across Dean’s face and ruffle his hair, and then suddenly there Crazy Cas is, standing in the middle of Dean's bedroom like he's forgotten the concept of knocking along with most of his mind, Emmanuel and Misha tethered to him with a hand each and both looking windswept and vaguely green under the gills.

            “Hello, Dean,” C.C greets when it becomes apparent no one else is going to break the silence. His toothy smile is bright and oblivious, like he hadn't just witnessed Dean's spectacular nosedive from grace hours previously. “You’re looking particularly curmudgeon-y today.”  

            “What the hell is this? Since when did my room become a truckstop for angels?” Dean sputters when he locates his voice, shooting upward and upsetting the laptop (which is saved from a tragic death only by Charlie’s quick hands). “Has _no one_ here ever heard of a little thing called some goddamn privacy?”

            “No need for alarm, Not-Jensen,” Misha says by lieu of greeting, but Dean's too distracted by the ridiculous sock monkey hat perched on his head, its button eyes staring soullessly at Dean and somehow managing to look like it's laughing at him. The hat wobbles when Misha flings his arms wide in a grand gesture, his hand narrowly missing smacking Emmanuel in the face. “We’re simply the cavalry, come here to gatecrash this pity party.”

            Dean's hackles rise, embarrassment from his utter humiliation washing over him anew. The last thing he wants right now is this assclown rubbing his face in it. “Yeah, well, invitation only, so beat it, Fonzie,” he growls out, hitching his thumb towards the door.

            Misha scrunches up his nose at the dismissal, sticking his tongue like he's the literal embodiment of a two-year-old. “Invitations are for peasants and giraffes; I’m a _celebrity_. Hence the term _gatecrashing_.” He gives Dean a look like he’s being purposely slow. “Try to keep up, Not-Jensen.”

             Dean's scowl could curdle milk, but it hardly fazes Charlie when he directs it at her. "Charlie, what the hell is this? Why did you call them here?" Then it clicks, and his entire body goes cold. "Oh, Bradbury, tell me you didn't stage me an  _intervention_. Do I _look_ like Lindsey Lohan to you?!"

             "Well, you sure do drink enough, mister," Charlie retorts tartly, her patience burned down to the wick.

             Dean gives her his best sarcastic smile. "Cute. You know what I mean. I don't need you all sitting me down for some heart-to-heart Hallmark moment crap, I'm just fine and dandy here on my own."

            Charlie throws her hands up in the air in an aggravated gesture, simultaneously making a rude noise with her tongue. "Yeah, because sitting here alone in the dark, bottling everything up, is totally gonna solve all your problems for you." Dean scowls, and for a moment Charlie looks ready to bite his head off, but then she visibly takes a breath and when she speaks again, her tone is kinder. "Contrary to how you and your brother seem to think emotion baggage should be handled by running away whenever things get a little tough, it really isn’t good for you to distance yourself from us, Dean. Trust me.” She smiles at him, but it’s a thin, bitter thing. “No one knows better than me.”

           Slightly abashed at the reminder of Charlie's tragic past, Dean sits there with his lips pursed, fuming and chewing on the inside of his cheek. "So where do these two jokers fit in, then?" he demands, jabbing his head aggressively in their direction, but he's given her an inch, albeit reluctantly.

            "Well, about that . . ."Charlie slips off the bed, padding across the room to retrieve her messenger bag. "Misha and Manny volunteered to keep you company while I'm out," she says gaily, not looking at him while she slips on her boots.

            Dean's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Out?"

            She looks up from where she's bent over to beam mischievously at him. "Mama's gotta hot date tonight." She explains giddily, "This is the first time in months Dory is going to have time off from all her responsibilities in Oz, and I've got tickets to Emerald City Comic-Con, 'cause, get it? _Emerald City -_ erm, never mind. Point is, I'm not missing this for _anything._ "

             Dean gestures between himself and Misha and Emmanuel. "And what I am supposed to do with these two in the meantime? Paint our nails and spill on which boys we have crushes on while we ignore the white elephant in the room?"

             Charlie shoots him an amused look. "I think we all know by now who you want to take you to prom, Dean." She has the audacity to make kissy faces at him. 

            “Oh, come on,  _Charlie_.” Dean doesn’t  _whine_ , he simply bequests in a tone higher than his normal one. “You can’t just stick me here with these two. How do I know if Misha's even housebroken?”

            Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Crazy Cas turn to Emmanuel. “Misha is incontinent?"

            "Play nice, Dean," Charlie threatens, eyes narrowed. "I mean it. Remember, I don't need Dorothy to kick your ass."

            “Traitor,” Dean retorts, flashing a sulky look at her.

              Shaking his head at Dean and making a _tsk_ ing sound, Misha slips free of Cas’s hand to stride forward and twist around the chair by Dean’s bed until he can straddle it, sitting backwards with his chin pillowed on his arms against the backrest. “Think of it this way, Not-Jensen: Manny and I are going to be your own personal candy stripers for the night." He frowns. "Except without the cool costumes. Which I would have totally worn if you’d had any on hand, and – although this is merely my personal if highly influential opinion – would have coincidentally looked _fabulous_ in. Especially when paired with a set of 40’s French high heels . . . Where was I going with this again?”

            Ever the diplomat, Emmanuel chooses that moment to finally speaks, though he holds back beside Cas. “What Misha’s trying to say – or, at least, what I _think_ he’s trying to say – is that we’re here to offer our assistance, Dean.” He hesitates then, tip of his tongue steeping between the breach of his lips, as thugh his next words require delicate care. “As well as our . . . support.”

            “Support,” Dean says flatly, eyes flickering suspiciously between the two of them. Manny’s gaze skitters away from Dean’s while he blushes furiously, pink spots giving a delicate color to his face all the way down to his collar, but Misha is downright leering at Dean, wiggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly and licking his pink lips. The gears in Dean’s head start turning, pieces clicking into place, slowly forming a disturbing picture. “And by that you would mean . . . _what_ exactly? I assume you're not talking about 24/7 tech assistance."

            Charlie winks. "That's for us to know and you to find out," she says enigmatically, which is annoying and just plain unfair at this point. Throwing her hoodie on, she reaches across the bed to wrap her arms around Dean’s broad shoulders, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, to which he dutifully sits still for, no matter how hard he may be pouting. "I know what you're thinking, Dean, but you're wrong. They don't care about the amulet thing, they were just worried about you. Although I think Misha would only admit it under threat of torture . . . Just do this for me, Dean," she whispers into his ear."Lay off the aggro for a minute, hang out with these guys for the night, and just, you know.” Her lips twitch and a small giggle slips out. “Netflix and chill.”

             Whatever Charlie seems to think is funny, Dean doesn’t get. However, it's finally clear to Dean that no matter what kind of fit he kicks up, Charlie's not going to budge an inch. He never stood a chance really, he muses ruefully, not when up against a stubbornness that can put his to shame. Ironically, it’s a trait is probably what makes Charlie such a fine honorary Winchester. When she pulls back she must see the resignation in his face, because her lips spread wide in a smug smile.

            " _Fine,"_ he blows out exasperatedly. "I'll do it. They can stay. Can I please get back to my goddamn show now?!"

            "That's my boy," Charlie says as she knocks a fist playfully against his chin, eyes sparkling. 

            Dean rolls his eyes, but he's smiling despite himself. “Yeah, yeah, so you keep saying . . . but I won’t like it," he promises, waving a finger at her.

             “He says that _now_ . . .” he hears Misha mutter from his chair, but when Dean eyes him mistrustfully, the actor purposely glances away, a smile that spells nothing but trouble for Dean on his face. It stirs an uneasiness in Dean that has nothing to do with thoughts of therapy sessions.

            “Okay, seriously now, Charlie, what’s the big surprise?” He attempts a nervous smile, jokes weakly, “What, do you have the Budweiser twins and a six-pack hiding in Manny’s cardigan?”

             Charlie gives him a smile that somehow manages to appear 100% guileless. "Maybe." She taps him on the nose.

             " _Charlie_ -"

            The dramatic music of Charlie's phone's ringer interrupts him (the theme to _Doctor Who,_ Dean thinks, not that he would waste his time with that British crap), and she fishes it out of her bag to check the screen. “And that would be my cue. Sorry, Dean, gotta ditch." She slips off the bed, skipping forward with her hand out. "Ready for takeoff, Captain Cas?”

            Cas, who has remained silent through all this save for the soft humming under his breath, expression absently content while he remains absorbed in observing a particularly interesting dust mote swirl through the air, perks up at the sound of his name. “Ready when you are, Miss Charlie,” he says shyly, blushing when she slips a hand through his arm. 

             "Have fun, Red," Misha calls, Emmanuel waving dutifully beside him. "And don't worry about us. I'm sure we'll all be _great_ friends by the end of the night."

             "Remember, Dean,” Charlie sing-songs. “Good friends will trash-talk your exes with you, but best friends will get you _laid_.”

              The hammer finally drops and cracks Dean upside the head.

              Fuck his life.

             Eyes popping wide, Dean scrambles off the bed, getting tripped up in the laptop chord, a strangled noise works its way out of his throat. "Charlie, wait, goddammit, ow, _no_ -!"

             But too late. Charlie and Crazy Cas are gone in a blast of wind that's strong enough to slam Dean's door shut, leaving him alone with Misha and Emmanuel. Gaping in disbelief, he swings his head to stare at the two: the former is wiggling his eyebrows at Dean nonstop, and the latter has found himself suddenly very interested in a spot on the floor.

             This can't be happening, Dean thinks frantically, ready to die of mortification all over again.            

             "Awkward silences are boring," Misha announces. He abandons his chair in favor of belly-flopping onto Dean's bed, flipping around until he can stare up at Dean with a lascivious smirk. "So, Not-Jensen," he says, pulling a small bottle from his pocket, "how serious were you about the nail polish? Because lucky for you, I came prepared."

             The giant white elephant in the room heaves an exasperated sigh, sitting down to flip through a magazine and wait through what will surely be a long, incredibly awkward night.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome.  
> Come talk to me at my tumblr: I-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs  
> Also, as of 1/4/16, I've tentatively decided to attend Pittcon 2016 in my hometown of Pittsburgh, probably just for Saturday. I'll let you guys know if this actually happens or if I chicken out, but I hope to meet some of you there :)


	17. Emmanuel ... and Meta!Misha (What's French for Three?) Part2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Basically, this makes me Manny's sex coach,” Misha chips in, grinning smugly. “Totally gonna add it to my CV later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Notdead
> 
> Well, that certainly went on longer than I had planned. As always, sorry for the wait, I have no excuses. I do hope, however, that some of you will be willing to read my rarepair bigbang entry, Your Left Hand Man, featuring Jody Mills/Jimmy Novak, as well as amazing art by the wonderful and talented kuwlshadow.
> 
> Fair warning the chapter is gonna look a little less than stellar in some places. Sorry, guys, but I honestly don’t want to take another 5 days of editing. I’d rather get this out and come back to do some major edits later.
> 
> Now for the warnings: NC-17, lots of fretting over consent, some come play, rimming, dirty talk that can be construed as degrading (though I tried not to go overboard), bottom!Emmanuel, switch!Dean, top!Misha (but also implied bottom!Misha), dom/sub undertones, implied unrequited meta!Cockles  
> Note that Meta!Misha is not the/real/ Misha, in that, other than some personality differences, he is not married to Vicki (or anyone else) or has any children. Please don't think I'm picking on the real Misha in any way. This is all meant to be good fun (also I hopes this makes people easier about Meta!Cockles since it's not really rps).  
> ALSO PLEASE REMEMBER THE CANON CHARACTER DEATH IN 6X15!! THERE WILL BE REFERENCES MADE!
> 
> And one MORE thing... I've gotten some concerns regarding the Leviathan!Cas chapter and whether it'll be addressed in later chapters. For my response, please see the following link: http://i-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs.tumblr.com/post/141721068089/i-love-nine-of-a-kind-and-i-love-your-writing-and  
> It’s important to me that I keep the consent issues of Nine of a kind open to discussion, so feel free to ask me any questions or concerns you have about any of the upcoming chapters. Please know you'll never be bothering me :)
> 
> And one MORE MORE thing: I've gotten several offers to beta. I'm not ignoring you guys by posting this, I just need to get this out. Maybe next chapter :)

           Dean doesn’t understand how it happens, but somehow, fifteen minutes later, he finds himself sprawled across the length of his bed, his left foot nestled (read: firmly secured) in Misha’s lap while the evil man paints Dean’s toenails livid shades of orange and neon green.

           (“So you’ll feel _manly_ ,” Misha had explained as he’d clambered onto the bed, but only after Dean had barked at him to _take your damn shoes off first, you hooligan._

           “My toes are gonna look like friggin’ Froot Loops,” Dean had grumbled sourly.

           “Mmm, _yum_.”)

            Dude must have demonic hypnotist powers to be able to make Dean agree to this torture, it’s the only logical explanation.

            “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Dean grouses, internally wincing with every stroke of the tiny brush. Dean will sell his soul back to Hell before he ever lets Sam catch wind of this.

            “Well, you were pretty adamant against the possibility of us, y’know –” Misha pauses to make an okay sign with his free hand and pokes the brush through the circle, whistling as he repeats the lewd gesture “– so it looks like this is gonna be our activity for the night instead,” he explains smugly, adding what suspiciously looks like a tiny green heart on Dean’s big toe.

            Dean says nothing, distracted by the expanse of taut, tanned skin peeking out from beneath Misha's collar.

            With the excuse of it being overly stuffy in Dean’s room, Misha had finally shed his hideous snowflake sweater jacket (after which Dean promptly snatched up and tossed out of sight, good fuckin’ riddance) to reveal underneath a sky blue t-shirt with the word _Namaste_ written in curvy black lettering, and what Dean supposes is its corresponding character (although knowing Misha’s sense of humor, it could actually mean goldfish, or something equally incongruous). The way it fits Misha’s muscled form, however, and rides up to reveal equally sharp hipbones every time Misha makes a seemingly careless shift of his body, makes Dean suspect the wardrobe change wasn’t as innocent as Misha had claimed.

            “I think the colors are quite nice, Dean. They soften your edges,” Emmanuel informs him, piping up unexpectedly from where he’s nestled alongside Dean on the now-cramped bed, his attention momentarily diverted from the laptop screen where _Star Trek: TOS_ continues to play. While Dean doesn’t exactly trust the fashion sense of someone who looks like he raided Fred Roger’s closet, Emmanuel says it with such utter guilelessness that Dean can’t help but feel obligated not to be a dick.

            “Um, thanks, Manny, I guess . . .” he replies stiltedly, fighting not to be aware of how Emmanuel is a pillar of warmth down Dean’s side, comforting in his solidness. Dean takes that moment to not-so-subtly scrutinize Emmanuel while he’s absorbed with 1960’s science fiction in all its 35 mm glory, to  _really_  look at him. Sure, the guy looks fine, same as ever really - perfect posture (which is kind of weird, considering Cas has gotten to be kind of a sloucher), placid expression firmly intact like the world could come crashing down on Emmanuel and he'd face it with nary a flinch.

            But call Dean cynical - he has his doubts that anyone can have the shit kicked out of their world-view so completely and still feel 'put together.’ Sooner or later, something's gotta give, and if possible, Dean would like to cut a mental breakdown off at the pass before he finds Emmanuel singing  _Angel from Montgomery_ on the roof in his underwear. He figures this is the part where he should nonchalantly ask some leading question like _So, Manny, how's the single-life treating you?_ , but he stumbles over the block that Sam and Charlie call his 'emotional constipation' at the five-yard line, and all that comes out instead is a fumbled out, “So what’s the situation, Manny? Any red-shirts left standing?”

            Misha snorts derisively and gives Dean a pointed look, like he somehow knows exactly what Dean had meant to say before he’d chickened out. 

            Emmanuel cocks his head at that and squints his eyes suspiciously, peering hard enough at the screen that Dean feels like he should tell him to ease up before he goes blind. “Now that you mention it, I do believe you may be on to something,” Emmanuel answers with a whole lot more gravitas than Dean thinks the throwaway question warrants. “The Star Fleet officers wearing the red uniforms do seem to be killed off a disproportional amount of times compared to the rest of the _Enterprise’_ s crew. You would think that at the very least Officer Spock would catch onto to this ominous trend, and advise against assigning red uniforms to any future officers.”

             “Yeah, you would think,” Dean chuckles lowly, thoughts drifting to whether or not Castiel would take to  _Star Trek_  as much as his counterpart has if Dean were to show him a few of his personal favorite episodes, maybe throw some  _Deep Space Nine_  and  _Enterprise_  in there for good to measure. 

             Of course, that would require for them to be in the same room together, something which Cas has made very clear he wants no part of, the bunker apparently too small for the both of them now. Funny how Dean keeps forgetting that.

            Throat burning with the need for a drink – whiskey, shit, even beer, whatever it would take to take the edge off – his hand shakes minutely where it comes up to rub wearily at his eyes. God, but he has really fucked up this time, hasn’t he?

             Oblivious to Dean’s slip into melancholy, Emmanuel continues to ramble on, and Dean forces himself to tune back in. “. . . Either way, it seems like an incredible oversight on Captain Kirk’s part. His carelessness could cost him his rank.”

            “Hey, now. No hating on the Shat,” Dean chides jokingly, though his heart isn’t really in the jest. “The man’s practically a national hero. He, Lucy Lawless, and Harrison Ford made up the holy trifecta of my teen years.”

             “Oh. My apologies, I wasn’t aware,” Emmanuel backpedals, like he’s afraid he’s unwittingly committed a well-known social faux pas. “We – I mean, Daphne and I – never had much time for television. We kept a fairly busy schedule most days, what with my healings and her volunteering at our local church." With a small, conspiratorial grin at Dean, he adds in an undertone, "The occasional  _Oprah_ during lunch was my guilty pleasure, of course.”

             “What, even during your days off from saving the world one miracle at a time you never kicked back in front of the boob tube with a beer and a plate of nachos?” Dean demands with a touch of disbelief, nearly asking Manny how short was the leash Daphne kept him on before thinking better of it.

              Emmanuel squints suspiciously at him as though trying to decide if Dean is pulling his leg when he calls it _the boob tube_. “Daphne said many of today’s programs promote needless violence and sexual deviance.”

              “But that’s the best part!” Dean protests, genuinely a little offended now. “Misha, back me up here, man.”

              “Far be it from me to tell another man how to consume his popular visual media, Not-Jensen. I’m an actor; I can only present my craft,” Misha says unhelpfully, pausing the pedicure for a moment to examine his work with a critical eye while Dean pouts. “That being said, however – Manny, you have my explicit permission to trash talk Bill. Take it from me that’ll it hardly dent his ego. Besides, bastard owes me $50 from a bet on whether or not I could fit a jar of jelly penises in my mouth.”

              That gets Dean’s attention. “ _You_ know William Shatner?” he asks, incredulous.

               “Know him?” Misha scoffs. “The guy’s like my own personal stalker. He’s always calling me in the middle of the night, starting prank wars, inviting me out to fancy wine tastings, calling me mean names like ‘Cupcake’ . . . The guy’s a nightmare – I can’t stand him!”

               By now, Dean’s been around Misha long enough to be fairly confident that this is just him being overly facetious. Pretty sure. Like, a solid 85%.

               “I thought the captain’s name was James Kirk?” Emmanuel asks in the middle of this, hopelessly lost.

               “It’s just a character name, Manny,” Dean explains absently. To Misha, he asks, as nonchalantly as he can manage, “So, what, you guys, like, friends or somethin’?”

               “I like to think of him more as my arch-nemesis. But, yes, we have been called friends by less-informed parties.”

               “Cool, cool,” Dean says, picking at a hangnail on his thumb, the very picture of disinterest, practically radiating nonchalance . . . 

               He makes it nearly half a minute before he cracks.

               “So, what’s he like? Have you ever worked with him before? Oh, I bet he's all method, right? And weird question, but do you know what kind of aftershave he uses? Asking for a friend. Hey, is that rumor about him and those triplets with the jello-eating contest true –?”

               “One more word about someone that isn’t me, fanboy, and I’ll break out the pink nail polish,” Misha threatens, and that shuts Dean up real quick.

               Of course, barely five minutes have passed before Dean starts getting antsy again. Seriously, how do women sit through _one_ of these, much less several a year? _Plus_ _hands_? “Hey, Picasso, you almost finished down there?”

               “Just putting the finishing touches on now, but I can stay down here longer if you’ve changed your mind and decided there’s _other_ things you’d like me to be doing with my hands . . . and mouth,” Misha responds with a lewd wink, smiling slyly before leaning down to blow on Dean’s drying toes. He pulls back to inspect his handiwork, nodding in approval. When he glances up, he sees Dean’s unimpressed glower. “Don’t pout, Not-Jensen. It was inevitable. You never stood a chance against my devastating charm. I always get what I want in the end.” His gaze flickers to Dean’s, and there’s something significant there that makes Dean’s belly coil warm and tight in a way that the cheesy, heavy-handed innuendo couldn’t. It’s almost Cas-like, he realizes, with no small amount of trepidation. When Misha runs a finger up the arch of Dean’s foot, Dean involuntarily shivers. “ _Always_.”

               “Jesus, would you – would you _quit it_?” Dean tries to tug his foot back, made uncomfortable more by these unexpected _feelings_ that are dangerously close to resembling something akin to fondness than by Misha’s outrageously bold come-ons, but Misha’s deceptively strong grip is like a vise. Dude must be into Crossfit or something.

               Misha’s Cas-blue eyes sparkle and his nose crinkles in the way Cas’s does, even if the mischievous smile is 100% his own. “Quit what? This?”  

               “Yes – _that_!” Dean most definitely does _not_ yelp when Misha brushes against the sensitive parts of Dean’s foot in a move that’s anything but accidental. Narrowly missing jabbing Emmanuel in the ribs with his elbow, Dean finally yanks his foot free before things can spiral out of his control more than they already have. “You’re kind of a fucking asshole, anyone ever tell you that?” he huffs, short of breath.

               Misha fakes a scandalized gasp, pressing a splayed hand to his chest. “Why, they would _never_!” he exclaims in a surprisingly high alto that Dean doesn’t think Cas could ever manage even if he convinced the angel to swallow a balloon full of helium.

               Dean wrinkles his nose in an exaggerated grimace. “Dude, that was so cheesy. Are you sure you’re an actor?” he asks skeptically.

               “Well, that’s what it says on my resume, so it must be true.”

               “How did you even wind up in acting? What, they not accepting applications at the mani-pedi saloons?” Dean jokes, covering up his honest curiosity with the rather rude jab.

               Misha shrugs, screwing the caps back onto the nail polish bottles. “When White House intern didn’t pan out, I was forced to explore my career options. I figured acting on camera was as good a way as any to pass the time until I could enact my plans for world domination, so I looked west to the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. Something about the sun and beaches and unnaturally pretty people really appealed to me.” He pauses to set the bottles aside, a bit of a smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth. “So, naturally, I ended up in Vancouver. Haven’t seen my balls in nearly three years.”

               Dean lets loose a bark of surprised laughter at that, and although he seems equally surprised by Dean’s exuberant response, Misha smiles in return, a tentative thing that Dean has never seen on his face before. It’s a good look on him.

              “You know what, Mish? I think maybe I’d like you if you weren’t such a douche,” Dean concedes, lips twisting wryly.

             Misha gives him an odd look at that, but before Dean can make heads or tails of it, he makes it vanish only to replace it with a more amiable expression, like an expert magician’s sleight of hand. “Then I wouldn’t be me, so it’s kind of a moot point, ain’t it?

            Dean’s kind of stumped for an appropriate response to that one, not that it seems Misha expects or wants one anyways. He lifts up Dean’s foot and presents it for inspection. “So, what do you think? No need to thank me, but I do accept tips – preferably cash, although I also accept all major credit cards.”

            Dean wiggles his multi-colored toes, and wonders if chopping his foot off with a machete would be considered an extreme measure. He thinks he’d still make a decent hunter, even with one less limb. Hell, Bobby had been stuck in a wheel chair for the better part of a year and for all his bitchin’ he hadn’t done half bad himself. “Well, I guess I’ve had this coming,” he says morosely. “I’m now officially a painted whore.”

            Misha quirks an imperious eyebrow. “Well, if you’re gonna be like that, I can bust out the blush and mascara if you like . . .”

            “Nope! No, that won’t be necessary,” Dean says quickly, taking his foot back just in case.

            Misha sniffs, pretend-wounded. “You know, the Pope once asked me to repaint the Sistine Chapel.”

           “Really?” Emmanuel breaks his attention away from _Star Trek_ long enough to ask. “That’s quite impressive.”

            Dean snorts, shaking his head in rueful amusement. “Don’t listen to him, Manny.” To Misha, he says in resigned amusement, “You’re such a bullshitter.”

            Misha shrugs, unrepentant. “And you’re only just getting this now?”

            At that Dean purses his lips, side-eyeing Misha in shrewd speculation for a long moment. “Tell me one true thing about yourself,” he challenges.

            “What? I just did!” he protests indignantly, and Dean mentally high-fives himself for having tripped Misha up for once.

            “Well, I’m not talking about Misha the actor, I’m taking about Misha the person,” Dean counters, grinning widely now as he watches Misha squirm. “I don’t know _him_ yet, and since I never mix business without a little pleasure . . .” he trails off suggestively, leaving the bait to dangle in front of Misha’s nose. “What’s the problem, Mish? Afraid to go off script?”

           Misha narrows his eyes dangerously, and it’s so reminiscent of Cas’s smitey glare that Dean fights back a shiver. “You play dirty, Winchester.” Unexpectedly, he smirks, and it makes Dean feel like he unwittingly played right into Misha’s hand. Paradoxically, that only makes him more excited. “Good. I look forward to you bringing your A-game later.”

            Dean merely shrugs coyly, poker face up, although the rate of his heartbeat ticks up a smidgen. “Your move, Vancouver.”

            Misha must be hornier than Dean realized, because he gives in with surprisingly little resistance. “Alright, _fiiinnne_. But you must swear not to reveal any of my secrets on pain of death. Not even if shady government officials that may or may not be CIA torture you. Swear it!”

            Solemn-faced, Dean raises his hand and arranges his fingers in what he’s pretty sure is the appropriate gesture. “Scout’s honor.”

            It must be enough to satisfy Misha, because after rolling his eyes with a put-upon sigh, he answers, “ _Fine_. Not a lot of people know this, but my real name’s Dmitri Krushnic, and yes, that’s Russian, and no, I can’t speak it unless it’s during the heat of passionate lovemaking.” He’s pauses to smirk and wink at Dean, but it’s become such an expected gesture that it no longer fazes him. “Also, I actually _have_ been arrested once – shame on you for doubting me – but it was on completely bogus charges.”

            “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this. What’d you do?” Dean asks despite himself.

            Misha waves a careless hand. “I climbed onto the roof of some local bank afterhours,” he explains. “The local authorities threw around a lot of fancy words like trespassing . . . But hey, how else was I supposed to read my book? They had the best lighting!”

            “Of course, you would,” Dean says with a bark of laughter, shaking his head incredulously. Even Emmanuel chuckles, soft and hesitant, like he’s not sure if he’s included in the conversation or that he should be supporting misdemeanors. “Alright, alright. One more, then, and I’ll let you off the hook,” Dean presses.

            Misha makes a face like he’s annoyed, but Dean doesn’t believe it for a second, not when all attention in the room is on Misha and only Misha. “You’re greedy.” But then his eyes narrow, expression shrewd. “Fine. I’ll tell you one more thing, but only . . . .” Gaze roaming, he eventually alights on something over Dean’s shoulder, and his face splits into that Cheshire grin. “. . . if _Manny_ also tells you a thing. Just one,” he assures, when Emmanuel startles beside Dean, his expression alarmed. “Prove to us there’s more than just polite smiles under that cardigan.”

             “I-I don’t –” Emmanuel stutters, clearly flustered by the unexpected attention thrust upon him. “That is to say – well . . . I suppose that’s just it. I don’t have anything _to_ say. Besides my abilities – which technically aren’t even _mine_ – there’s nothing interesting about me.” He says it without the bitterness or sarcasm that Jimmy had when he’d said as much, just simply matter-of-fact. “I’m not _special_.”

              “Yeah, well, that’s not how I see it.” It slips out before Dean can reel it back in, cover it up with a lie or a smoothed-over alteration. The prickle of irrational anger burning on his neck is also making his tongue loose and foolish, apparently. It’s not Emmanuel’s fault he’s practically a stranger to himself; if anything, it’s _Dean’s_ fault – for going to Colorado in the first place, for not getting back in the Impala and driving away the moment he saw him, for shoving Cas’s memories back into Emmanuel’s skull, effectively wiping ‘Emmanuel Allen’ from existence.

              Dean wishes he could stuff it right back in when Emmanuel smiles beatifically at him, making him feel like a tender-hearted but naïve simpleton. “That’s very kind of you to say, Dean. But I think we both know it’s not always me you see when you look at me.”

              The honest truth stings, even more so that Emmanuel sounds so fucking _zen_ about his own insignificance, but Dean soldiers on. “So? All the more reason to prove to us you’re your own man. Erm, angel-man.” He thumps Emmanuel on the back, the patented, ham-fisted brand of Winchester comfort. “C’mon, Manny. Doesn’t have to be some wild, drunken escapade that trumps Misha’s. Just gotta start small.” When Emmanuel continues to look dubious, he adds, “Look. You and Misha are here to take my mind off things, right?” He shoots a quelling look at Misha when the doppelganger opens his mouth to make a most likely lewd comment, then turns back to Manny only when Misha pantomimes locking up his lips and throwing away the key. “Well, here’s your chance. Tell us one thing you want us to know about Emmanuel Allen.”

_Show me who you are before you’re gone again._

               Emmanuel considers this, and must find Dean’s logic sound, because after a moment of reflection he quietly says, “Gardening. I . . . I enjoy gardening. When I can find the time, that is,” he amends, a little shyly. When he glances up at Dean through his eyelashes, there’s a small yet unmistakable shard of pride there. “It’s small, my garden, but it is mine.”

               “Well, that’s, um, certainly something! You hear that, Misha? Manny here’s got a green thumb!” Dean exclaims brightly, though he knows dick-all about keeping plants alive other than the wonders Miracle-gro can do to a browning lawn. Digging in the dirt on hands and knees under the merciless heat of the afternoon sun had been more of Lisa’s thing, one Dean had never made a secret of his bemusement for. For Manny’s sake, though, he can be appreciative. “Bet you’re being all modest and shit, too, huh? Probably were the envy of the neighborhood with your, uh . . . What exactly did you grow in Colorado?”

               Misha coughs something that sounds suspiciously like, “ _Pot_!” though he goes unnoticed by Emmanuel.

               “I prefer mostly working with perennials. Lavender, forget-me-nots –” Dean snorts at the irony – “mango punch and the like.”

               “That last one sounds like a smoothie,” Dean quips, grimacing as his stomach chooses that moment to pointedly remind him it’s been quite a few hours since he last ate.

               Emmanuel ducks his head, and Dean counts it as a win when the corner of his mouth lifts in a tentative smile. “You wouldn’t want to consume them, I assure you. They were, however, Daphne’s favorite.” At that his gaze goes distant, his more pronounced smile turning wistful. “Although she never quite had the knack for it, sometimes she would come out to lend me a hand if the weather was mild enough. She would bring lemonade, or sun lotion if I forgot it, which was frequent . . .” Emmanuel breaks off abruptly, his face clouding over. Eyes downcast, he fiddles with something in his hands, and something in Dean’s gut twists unpleasantly when he realizes it’s his wedding band. When Manny finds his voice again, it’s shaky and halting. “I . . . I forgot to ask her if she found someone to maintain it . . . Guess I’ll never have the chance to find out.”

          Dean doesn’t need to have his brother’s giant nerd brain to figure out Emmanuel’s upset about more than just some friggin’ plants. _Called it._

          “Shit, I’m . . . I’m sorry, Manny,” Dean fumbles awkwardly, at a complete lost on how to handle this. He shoots a helpless look at Misha, who’s at least partially responsible as far as Dean’s concerned, but the bastard isn’t even paying attention, his nose buried back in his phone. “I didn’t mean . . .”

         “It’s not your fault, Dean, you did nothing wrong,” Emmanuel replies hoarsely, seemingly pulling himself together, thread by thread. He offers Dean a weary smile that seems to take more effort than it’s worth. “Remember what I said about it not being your duty to protect me?” he chastises, not unkindly. With a self-deprecating twist of his mouth, he adds, “Besides, it’s not like I haven’t burdened you with enough of my woes today.”

           Dean recognizes the out for what it is, and although he’s sorely tempted to exit from this horribly uncomfortable discussion stage right – because he’d rather go vegan for a year than discuss Emmanuel’s love life – a nagging voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Sam’s eggs him on. “Yeah, but now you’ve had time to process shit and whatnot, and _something’s_ obviously still bothering you.” When Emmanuel’s gaze skitters away from his, Dean takes it as confirmation. “It might – _and I can’t believe I’m saying this_ ,” he groans under his breath, “. . . you know, help to just get it off your chest.” He accompanies this with a jerky, cupping hand motion that makes it seem like he’s pantomiming spontaneously growing a pair of breasts. Given Emmanuel’s face, he doesn’t seem to understand what Dean meant by the gesture any more than Dean himself did. “Quick, like pulling a splinter. Hell, if it makes you feel better, you can . . . imagine me as your own personal Oprah. Misha can be, uh . . .”

           “Oh, I’m definitely Ellen,” Misha interjects, and Dean can’t say he at all disagrees.

          Whatever it is that has Emmanuel all twisted up inside, it must be serious, given he didn’t even crack a smile at Dean’s Totally Awesome joke. Instead, he sighs, exhaling a long breath as he moves to close the laptop lid shut, settling his back against the wall, his expression doleful. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to adequately explain. It’s difficult to put into words when I barely understand it myself. . . .”

           Dean holds off on rolling his eyes with some difficulty. “I think I’ll be able to get the gist just fine.”

           Emmanuel’s mouth tightens into a dour line, but eventually he nods. “Very well, then . . . It’s just that everything has been moving so quickly lately, it’s only now starting to catch up to me, the strangeness of it all . . .” He glances sheepishly up at Dean, and only continues when Dean makes an encouraging motion with his hand. “To me, it was a mere handful of days ago that I was a happily married man, content with my life, no matter how humble. Now due to events beyond my control, I’m neither married nor a man – not even an angel, really. I have no place, living on the kindness of strangers, thousands of miles from the only home I’ve ever known . . .” Dean ducks his head in guilt, rubbing self-consciously at the back of his neck, and Emmanuel adds drily, “Essentially, it’s still a lot for me to wrap my head around.”

           Dean chuckles humorlessly. “Yeah, I bet.”

          “And yet . . .” He turns to stare directly at Dean, and with Emmanuel looking at him like that, open-faced and imploring, it’s impossible for Dean not to remember what he’d overheard Daphne say: _the way you look at him . . . I never stood a chance, did I?_ Just thinking about it has his heart skipping a beat, like he’s the idiot who stuck his finger in the electrical socket. Against better judgement he finds himself looking for Castiel in those gray-blue eyes, thinks he finds something of the angel in the soft lavender skin under his eyes, in the lines at the corners. “Call it what you will – human instinct, some sort of angelic sixth sense, or merely serendipity – something is telling me that _here_ is where I am most needed, that this is where I have belonged all along. Against all sensible reason.” Emmanuel’s mouth thins. “It’s not the past that troubles me, Dean, it’s my future.”

          “ _Wow_ , uh . . . That’s good – er, _no_ , not good. That’s not, uh-” He’s babbling, he realizes. Shoving a hand back through his hair, Dean has to pause to marshal his thoughts, feeling his words slip every which way except into his grasp. It’s made more difficult by the fact that he’s simultaneously trying to viciously squash the bubble of hope that has formed inside his chest. “What I mean is, that’s definitely not what I’d thought you would say.”

           Emmanuel tilts his head curiously. “What did you think I’d say?”

           Dean laughs shakily, rubbing at the heated skin at the back of his neck. “That you were getting cold feet,” he admits sheepishly, uncomfortably aware of Misha listening intently beside him, idly picking at a fraying patch of Dean’s jeans before Dean swats his hand away. “That you wanted to go back to Daphne.”

            Emmanuel’s face crumples into an expression of pity, and Dean could kick himself over his choice of words. “Dean . . .”

            “Hey, can you blame me?” He musters up a rueful grin. “You changed your tune pretty quickly from this morning, it wouldn't be unusual to have some second-thoughts. Not that I would blame you," Dean insists hastily. "But in case you’ve already forgotten, you were pretty keen on hauling ass outta Lebanon before Daphne showed up.”

            “Yes, well, I wasn’t paying close enough attention this morning,” Manny replies cryptically with a pale imitation of a smirk, like his face isn’t sure how to correctly portray cynicism. 

            “Which means . . . _what_ , exactly?”

            “What I said about something keeping me here . . .” Emmanuel shifts around until his legs are pulled up to his chest, wringing his hands. Dean finds himself a little distracted with the motion, lost in watching those long, pale fingers twisting around each other.  “Dean, when we spoke earlier this morning in the hall . . . and I had correctly guessed you’d lost someone . . . it was Castiel, wasn’t it?”

             Completely thrown by the non-sequitur, Dean has to take a moment to flip back all the way to this morning – which honestly feels like a week ago – to recall. “I’ve lost a lot of friends, Manny,” he hedges, words bitter as arsenic. “But yeah. I guess you could count Cas. You heard what he said to Daphne earlier. All that stuff about ‘good intentions’ and ‘deadly consequences.’ It blew up in his face.”

            “You missed him very much,” Emmanuel surmises, though fuck knows why he sounds  _guilty_  about it.

            Dean scoffs. “Yeah, I was pretty bummed out,” he says, trying for sarcastic but it comes out hollow and distant. “But, hey, what do I care? I’ve practically gotten use to missing that bas-”

            “I’m sorry,” Emmanuel blurts out suddenly, and when Dean glances up, startled, his eyes are wide with anguish, expression wretched. His words come tumbling out like a crack has ruptured in a dam, a crack that’s been there all along, just waiting for a good, solid kick to split open. “I didn’t know, Dean, you have to believe me.  _I didn’t know_. If I had, I would have looked for you, too, I swear.”

            Dean’s has fallen so far behind in this conversation that he’s still trying to figure out what kind of plant a  _mango punch_  could possibly look like. “Cas – shit, my bad – Manny, you’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for, okay? It wasn’t like you lost my number or something – you literally  _died_  and became a new person. Cut yourself some slack. Besides, that was all years ago,” he points out gruffly. “It’s all over, done. Water under the bridge, okay? Just leave it be.”

            “No, Dean, you’re missing my point,” Emmanuel retorts, and there’s now a desperate edge to his voice to add to his building agitation. “That feeling of - of  _longing_  I mentioned earlier? That was  _you_ I felt, wasn’t it?”

            “I . . . what?” Dean begins, denial forming on the tip of his tongue, because while it’s one thing to harbor your own private suspicions, it’s a whole other ballgame to voice them aloud. “Manny, you’re confused –”

            “I _felt_ you, Dean, all that time, pining for Castiel. No – not just pining. _Praying_. Because that’s what angels – what _we_ do, isn’t it? Answer prayers. It all makes sense now. . .” Emmanuel continues softly as though Dean hadn’t spoken, staring plaintively at him before slumping forward, burying his face in his knees. “But I didn’t look for you. Not once. I could have found you, yet I did nothing. No, worse, than that, I _ignored_ you.” It nearly comes out a near-sob, breath hitching unevenly. “I deluded myself into thinking I was doing some good in the world with my work when in reality I had abandoned the one person who needed my help most.” He meets Dean’s gaze steadily with red-rimmed eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong, Dean. _Tell me I’m wrong_.”

           There was a time not too long ago when Dean would have given anything to hear this, for Castiel to acknowledge his own culpability in their lengthy separation, for him to confess to missing Dean even a fraction of how much Dean ached for Cas . . . but now Emmanuel’s words just leaves him feeling a little sick.

           “So this is why you came here tonight, then, isn’t it?” he asks, voice muted. “You think this can be your way of, what, making it up to me?”

            By the way Emmanuel screws his face up it’s clear he dislikes Dean’s choice of words, but all the same he doesn’t contradict him.

            Dean thumps his head back against the wall, sighing heavily. “ _Wow_. And here I only thought I was the rebound,” he says, trying for jokingly mournful, but it comes out sounding all wrong, probably due to the fact his mouth tastes of sawdust.

            “For the record, I just wanna fuck the guy that looks like my coworker,” Misha chips in, unabashed. “Check one off the old bucket list.”

             Emmanuel looks, if possible, even more distressed, though this time Dean has a hard time finding a single fuck to give. “I only want to help, Dean,” he says plaintively.

             “Broken record, Manny,” Dean says dismissively, making to get off the bed, ready to wash his hands clean of this whole sordid affair, only to find Misha’s hand locked onto his thigh. “Hey, what gives, man?”

              “Hear him out, Not-Jensen,” Misha insists, giving his best approximation of puppy-dog eyes, though it’s the genuine sincerity ringing in his words that gives Dean pause. “He’s been practicing this speech in front of a mirror all evening. _Literally_.”

              “What’s to hear?” Dean barks a laugh, sharp and bitter. “How you two conspired with _Charlie_ of all people to get me alone so we can fuck away my sorrows?”                

              “You still don’t understand, Dean,” Emmanuel huffs in frustration, rolling himself forward onto his knees, swinging a leg over Dean’s until he’s practically straddling him, and then presses his hand flat against Dean’s chest. Dean freezes at the touch, but Emmanuel barrels heedlessly on. “Castiel is here, alive and with you, and yet I’ve felt that gnawing longing that was not my own the first day I arrived here and every day since. When I see you look at him, it _grows_ , Dean, blossoms into something terribly lonely and hungry, bottomless. And then there was that incident with the false creature that called itself God, and, well . . . I – I couldn’t stand it any longer, so . . . as you guessed, yes, I came to Misha because I knew he was the only one who would be willing to aid me in an endeavor I admittedly have no experience in.” His cheeks color slightly, but his gaze remains resolute, fixed unwaveringly on Dean’s, like he’s challenging Dean to naysay him.

               “Basically, this makes me Manny’s sex coach,” Misha chips in, grinning smugly. “Totally gonna add it to my CV later.”

               “Oh, my God, this can’t be happening,” Dean groans, covering his face with both hands. He doesn’t know if it’s anger or embarrassment or a little of both that’s making his skin boil, but he’s sure his face could fry an egg right now. “Did you honestly think this would make me feel better? Some, what – shitty pity fuck with the lights off?”

               “If it would show you that you’re not as alone as you think you are, then yes,” Emmanuel says intensely, quiet yet defiant. “This is why I stayed, Dean. For _you_.”

               “To have sex with a guy you barely know hours after leaving your wife?” Dean asks in flat-out disbelief, breaking into semi-hysterical giggling. Even saying it out loud doesn’t make it sound any less ludicrous.

                Emmanuel exhales deeply, gaze never wavering from Dean’s face as he seems to come to some sort of decision. “None of this is meant to force or guilt you into anything you don’t want, Dean. If you wish, we’ll simply return to watching your space show with the tapered-eared aliens, and no further mention shall ever be made of our offer to you.” Beside him, Dean hears Misha make an impatient huff under his breath, but otherwise he keeps a lid on it. “But if that is the case, I want it to be because of _your_ misgivings and not due to any perceived ones on my end . . . and since you seem to be working under a frankly incorrect impression, I feel it’s important that you know . . . I’m not opposed.”

                Dean can only stare as Emmanuel leans back to sit on his heels and clear his throat profusely, glancing away while a pink flush rises to his skin. “You’re not exactly filling me with confidence, Manny.”

                After a moment’s deliberation, Emmanuel reaches a hesitant hand out, trails a thumb against the side of Dean’s face. Although the unexpected touch startles him, Dean doesn’t flinch back, allows Emmanuel’s finger to trace along his cheek down to the dip of his chin while Dean watches with wide eyes. There’s nothing suggestive about the move; it’s more inquisitive than anything. Yet apparently Dean’s dick didn’t get the memo, because the traitorous organ twitches in the confines of his jeans, jonesing for its next fix of Castiel, the little addict.

               “I never consummated my marriage with Daphne,” Manny starts slowly, “and although she suggested it once –” Dean does flinch at that, and Emmanuel presses his finger more firmly into Dean’s skin as though to soothe him “– she never pushed for it when I expressed my lack of interest in carnal pleasures. And at the time, that was true. . . .

                “Now, however, I find myself unable to stop thinking about it . . .” When Emmanuel’s thumb brushes against the swell of Dean’s bottom lip, he shivers. Emmanuel’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and Dean can _see_ the pupils dilate, slowly eclipsing the hazy blue. “All the aspects I found confusing or uninteresting or even repulsive now seem . . . intriguing.” Voice awed, he asks, “It’s because of you, isn’t it? All this time I’ve been waiting when I didn’t even realize it, and now here you are.”

                 It all suddenly becomes too much, and Dean forces his eyes shut. Yet that only serves to make it worse, amplifying the sensation of Emmanuel’s fingers ghosting over his face, Misha’s warm breath wafting over the back of his neck as he crowds closer, to 11. There’s no way either of them can’t see the outline of his excited cock stirring to life through his jeans.

               “Manny . . .” he says warningly. When Emmanuel doesn’t stop, Dean makes a pained noise and goes to snatch Emmanuel’s hand back. Once he does, however, he finds he can’t relinquish his hold, instead keeps their hands hovering near Dean’s temple. “ _You don’t know what you’re asking_ ,” he grits out shakily, a shamefully needy moan escaping him when Misha darts forward to press a kiss against his neck.

              “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you didn’t mean that to be as patronizing as it sounded.” Emmanuel’s voice is filled with wry humor, though it does little to abate the tension choking the room.

              Dean snorts despite himself. “Jimmy threatened to deck me when I said something similar to him.”

              Misha makes an approving sound. “Wouldn’t have pegged Novak for a kinky freak. Too bad he didn’t stick around long enough or we could have _really_ had some fun.”

              “Luckily for Dean, I have a distaste for violence, no matter how infuriating he might be,” Emmanuel says as he moves to lower himself just below Dean’s lap, and yeah, the bastard sounds like he’s full-on smirking now (on the inside, undoubtedly), even as he tortures Dean mercilessly.

              Dean snaps his eyes open, if only to glare daggers at Emmanuel. “Hey, hotshot, wanna pull the brakes on those wisecracks there and let me be serious for one damn minute? This isn’t just a roll in the hay we’re talking here. We do this, your ass gets express-shipped right back to Daphne and Colorado, with your memories left behind in baggage claim. What happened to staying in Lebanon to return working as a faith healer here, huh? That not in the cards anymore?”

              Even Dean recognizes he’s grasping at straws now, and pretty flimsy ones at that, but he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t at least _try._ Selfish, craven jackass he may be, doesn’t mean he has to drag Misha and Emmanuel down with him.

              “Then it wasn’t meant to be, I guess,” Emmanuel replies, infuriatingly zen as ever.

             “ _And dying is_?” Dean sputters angrily before he can stop himself, almost shouting now. He looks disbelievingly between Emmanuel and Misha, stunned to find neither appears to be all that perturbed by that doozie of a bomb drop; in fact, Misha looks almost impatient. “Because that’s what’ll happen –”

             “Let me just interrupt what I’m sure would have been a very vigorous and edifying scolding,” Misha cuts in. “Sorry to break it to you, Not-Jensen, but your brother already stole your thunder. He filled us in on everything: how Manny will get his wings back and that I’m set to play final role as be a cadaver.” His tone is flippant, his expression doesn’t waver, but the usually maniacal light in Misha’s eyes dims to a flickering ember. “So yeah, we know exactly what we’re signing up for. Now, will you _please_ stop giving yourself an ulcer from trying to valiantly protect our virtue out of some misguided sense of culpability so we can get this show on the road already? I’m trying blue here!”

             Dean is stunned, utterly gobsmacked. “Wait. And you’re _okay_ with that?”

             “ _Hell_ no!” Misha exclaims emphatically, voice getting pitchy as the veneer of aloofness starts to crack. “Are you nuts? Of course I’m not okay with being murdered! I haven’t even won an Emmy or jogged across America or taken over a small country yet! But let’s be real here, it’s not like I’m any safer staying in this fucked up world. I take one step outside this bunker and I’ll eaten by a mermaid or a werebunny – and I’m too pretty to be eaten!”

             “I wouldn’t let them get you,” Dean swears quickly, forcing Misha to meet his gaze. “They’d have to get through me first.”

             Misha blinks in a rare moment of surprise before his expression abruptly softens. “Sweet talker,” he chides mildly, forgetting to make it sarcastic enough to hide the genuine fondness. “Still doesn’t change my decision. My mind’s made up, and I’m sticking with you until the end of the line, come what may.”

             “Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental on me now, Mish,” Dean scoffs, but the brief surge of anger has already leaked out of him, leaving behind a bone-deep despair at their impossible situation that has him feeling heavy, like his blood has cooled to a sludge that passes glacially through his veins.

              The smile Dean feels pressed against his jaw is a sad one. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

              Meaningless platitudes seem to be all he has left, but he still offers a small, “I’m sorry, Misha,” feeling horribly cheap and insufficient. “You wouldn’t be caught in this clusterfuck if it wasn’t for me. You, too, Manny. It’s not fair.”

              “It’ll be all right, Dean,” Emmanuel says gently from Dean’s lap, using two fingers to tip Dean’s chin up and meet his gaze. “I figured out a while ago that returning to Colorado means becoming Castiel one day, when we meet again . . .  But the same will happen eventually if I stay, it’s only a matter of time. One day, I’ll remember, and I will no longer be Emmanuel.”

               “You don’t know that for sure,” Dean protests feebly.

               “No,” he agrees with a slight dip of his head, “but does it matter? Think about it, what would happen to Castiel if I were to never get my memories back? Would this future be altered?” His warm palm curls back around Dean’s jaw, thumb smoothing over the stubble there. “My life was always destined to be brief. Even if I had gone with Daphne, it would have ended shortly one way or another. Fate would have made sure of that, I’m certain. Believe me, Dean, when I say I don't make this decision lightly. I've had enough time to think it over, and I've made my peace with it. All is ask now is if you could do me the honor of allowing me this last moment with you, to have you . . . my soul would carry it with me always, even if the memory is stolen from me.”

                Overwhelmed, Dean can only gape up at Emmanuel in awed silence, a worrisomely prickling heat building behind his eyes. Without his say-so, his hands have anchored themselves on the spurs of Emmanuel’s hips, pulling him into his lap. He’s squeezing so hard that surely he must be hurting Emmanuel – _he can’t seem to stop hurting_ _him_ – but Emmanuel doesn’t betray a flicker of unease, just rubs circles in this skin of Dean’s cheek as he waits for Dean to pick through his tumultuous thoughts.

                “I’m not worth it.”

                Emmanuel’s smile falters, and when his hand detaches itself from Dean’s cheek it seems to steal away all the warmth in the world, and Dean nearly cries out from the loss. “I only say these things because they’re true, Dean. If they make you uncomfortable, please know that wasn’t my intention –

                “No, Manny, you – you don’t get it, alright? Neither of you do. You’ve got the wrong guy,” he says vehemently, voice hoarse. “Who am I to you? Nothing. Just some dumb bastard that the guy before you was unlucky enough to get stuck with. I’m not worth dying twice for.”

             But I _do_ know you, Dean Winchester,” Emmanuel insists, gaze fixed unwavering on him. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along. Your soul called out to me, and mine responded, because _it recognized you_.” His lips twist in self-deprecation. “Even though I’ve done a poor job of listening to it.”

             As he speaks, Emmanuel’s hand slides up Dean’s arm to rest unerringly on his left shoulder, and Dean gasps and shudders involuntarily, though all he feels is the warmth of his palm. Still, he wonders if Emmanuel knows the significance of the gesture, if he merely guessed, or if he actually could be right, and something _is_ guiding him, something intrinsic. Something of Castiel. . . .

             “Don’t be afraid for us, Dean; it will not save us,” he hears Emmanuel murmur mournfully, fingers pressing into the tense muscle like a benediction, and Dean whines pitifully, squirming underneath him, burning in his sin.  

             Gaze heavy-lidded, Emmanuel drifts forward until his forehead comes to rest against Dean’s, his uneven breathing and dilated pupils the only sign he is even half as affected as Dean. His scent cloys in Dean’s nostrils, a peculiar mixture of angel and human: the acridness of burning ozone and the sharp, floral smell of some store brand detergent. By all rights, it should smell downright unpleasant, but all it does is make Dean salivate as a warmth blooms in his chest before making its way slowly but steadily southward. Maybe by now his body has been fully trained to welcome Castiel, to _crave_ him, in whatever package he comes in.

            Lips tickling against Dean’s as he speaks, Emmanuel says softly, “Nothing about this is immoral, Dean. It is beautiful, it is life. You have nothing to be sorry for. All is forgiven.”

            “Manny . . .  _please_ ,” he pleads, though for release from this torment or for succor he no longer knows, can barely remember why it’s so important he resists. That one word is on the tip of his tongue, the need to finally surrender, to just  _let go,_  nigh unbearable, because he is greedy, he is  _weak_ , he’s a selfish bastard that always knew they would end up here and didn’t do a damn thing to derail it before it was too late–

            “I thought I told you to stop worrying,” a displeased voice murmurs throatily in his ear. When Dean feels warm lips again on the side of his neck, he startles badly, like he's been zapped with a cattle prod, but it doesn’t deter Misha from tracing a meandering line down the column of his throat, nor from curling an arm around Dean’s torso to make the already sparse space between them nonexistent. “Stop arguing. Stop overthinking. Just  _feel_ , live in the moment. Seriously -" he huffs a laugh that Dean somehow feels all the way to his toes - "how many guys can truthfully say they’ve actually had a threesome with twins? I mean, yes, I have, of course, on multiple occasions – as fully detailed in my pending 947-page autobiography – but that’s beside the point.” His hand reaches out to brush against Dean’s pecs, dragging across a cloth-covered nipple, before dipping down between Emmanuel and Dean’s bodies to flirt with the growing bulge in Dean’s jeans, running his knuckles along it before gracelessly cupping it and pressing. “Ah, there we go. Finally some participation from the class?” he says in delight when Dean gasps, bucking helplessly into the touch.

             Something in Dean flares in reaction to the taunt, piqued, suddenly no longer content to remain passive.

             “Misha, if you can find the time to run your mouth like that, maybe you’re not as into this as you say you are,” he growls out, hips grinding forward jerkily as much as they can with Emmanuel’s weight pinning him down. He knows without looking that he’s already fully erect, practically tenting, so wound up from his waning and waxing arousal that he could shamefully spill himself just from some amateur heavy petting.

             “Maybe I’m just wonderful at multitasking,” Misha volleys back, unabashed, his grin pressing into Dean’s tender skin as he noses behind his ear, increasing the pressure by a notch. The darting kiss he presses there is a tease, condescending, and Dean _snaps_.

              The angle could be better but he manages to lunge his hand out, catching Misha by his collar and bringing him close. Dean bares his teeth, snarls, “ _Then put your goddamn money where your mouth is_.”

               “Oh, you want a demonstration, huh?” Misha smirks, unfazed and looking, if possible, even more arrogant, though his voice has gone throaty. “Alright, then. Pay close attention.” Keeping one hand on Dean’s clothed dick, Misha hoists himself up with a grunt of effort to balance precariously on his knees before leaning over Dean to palm the back of a surprised Emmanuel’s head and pull him into an open-mouth kiss that Dean has unwittingly scored a front row seat to.

              Brain short-circuiting like a outlet with too many plugs, Dean can’t help but let out a drawn-out moan of envy, eyes fixed to the spectacle before him. It’s clear just from watching that Emmanuel, even after recovering from his initial surprise, is painfully inexperienced, eyes half-open and hands hanging awkwardly at his sides as his lips move clumsily against Misha’s. But despite all previous evidence to the contrary, Misha proves himself to be a patient teacher, coaxing his twin to move with him and praising him with caressing strokes of his thumb when Emmanuel does something well. Before Dean’s very eyes Emmanuel shakes off his hesitancy and soon grows bold under Misha’s gentle hand, surging forward to bury his fingers in Misha’s hair and daring a slip of tongue which Misha eagerly accepts. In no time at all they’re moving together in perfect synchronization, long-fingered hands roaming, exchanging gasps and moans, acting as though they’re one single being. They’re beautiful like a work of art, absolutely gorgeous together, and the greedy monster inside of Dean roars with want.

             He must make some sort of pitiful sound, because the twins unglue themselves from each other, panting heavily, a shiny trail of saliva connecting their pinkened mouths that Misha absently wipes away with the back of his hand, and they turn as one to look directly down at Dean, mirror images of blue-eyed debauchery.

             Breathing heavily, Misha offers a hand. “Care to join us,  _Dean_?”

            Hair an unsalvageable wreck, Emmanuel is still sitting heavily on his lap, looking dazed but blissed-out, eyeing Dean intently, and Misha _still_ has his goddamn hand on his groin and Dean is – Dean is  _tired_. Tired of fighting. Tired of constantly denying himself. Tired of pretending he doesn’t want, that he doesn’t crave.

            He is _ravenous_ with hunger, and here is a banquet laid out in front of him.

            With a groan of surrender, Dean curls his body forward until his mouth collides with Misha’s, rushing to reacquaint his hands with that thick dark hair as they practically attack each other mouths, releasing all that pent-up tension in the only way he knows how without resorting to physical violence. Luckily, Misha handles him just as well as he did a nervous virgin, giving back everything Dean throws at him and then some. Swiping his tongue along the seam of his lips in a demand for entry, Dean sucks Misha’s tongue into his mouth when he opens up, and swears it carries a taste on it not unlike burnt sugar, a taste he inexplicably connects with Emmanuel. Or maybe he’s imagining things. Does it really matter anymore?

            “Easy, easy there, Dean,” he hears Emmanuel soothe, voice hoarse. Hands trail down his chest, circling like they’re trying to calm a skittish colt. Dean jerks when one brushes against the inside of his right elbow. “That’s it. We’re here. Thank you for allowing us this gift. _Thank you_.”

             Growling like he’s some goddamn animal, Dean breaks away from Misha so that he can aggressively tug Emmanuel further into his lap, delighting at the startled yelp this elicits. Dean’s leg kicks out as they struggle to remain upright, and there’s a clatter on the floor that Dean’s brain – the part not currently going haywire with primal lust – recognizes might have been the laptop.

             “Don’t do this –” he warns, face hidden in the crook of Emmanuel’s neck.  “Don’t do this out of some sense of guilt, or – fuck, obligation. Only do this if _you_ want it, you hear me, you asshole? Swear it, or I walk right now.”

             “You – are – _infuriating_. Why must everything be so black and white for you?” Emmanuel gasps, futilely trying nudge Dean’s face up meet his gaze, which, _fuck that shit_. “I offer you everything, lay my soul bare before you, and still you demand more. Every word I offered you was the truth, nothing more, nothing less. My need for redemption shouldn’t cheapen my selfish desire to be closer to you, Dean, to taste what I can never have. I – I want to feel it for real, feel what you want –”

               “How would you know what I want?” he demands angrily into Emmanuel’s mouth, fingers inflicting cruel pressure into his hips. “What if what I want is to _consume_ you?” Without warning, Dean bites viciously at the meaty juncture between neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to ensure he leaves behind a decent-sized hickey. _Better than any ring,_ he thinks smugly, a possessive thrill running through him when Emmanuel jerks so sharply in his arms that Dean for a split-second Dean thinks he came just from that.

                “Ahh, _Dean_!” Emmanuel inhales sharply as his back arches, clinging tightly to him as he squirms in his lap, nails biting at the back of Dean’s skull as his fingers scramble madly at his scalp. His hips grind down against Dean in jerky, uncoordinated movements, instinctively chasing down his own pleasure without any of the working knowledge. For a moment, Dean considers letting Emmanuel hump Dean’s leg like a dog in heat while he pets and coos words of encouragement into his ear, leading Emmanuel in what might very well be his first orgasm. Just thinking about it has Dean feeling inexplicably dirty, and while he’s never really gone out of his way for virgins, the idea of being Emmanuel’s first, well, _everything_ , has Dean very hot under the collar indeed. “That’s – oh! _Please_.”

                 “You two wouldn’t believe how good you look together.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Misha languidly run a hand along his inner thigh as he avidly watches them, visibly twitching every time his knuckles brush against the outline of his very obvious erection. “Mmm, fuck. You’re both so gorgeous.”

                 Dean breaks away from Emmanuel long enough to toss out, “Take a picture, Mish, it’ll last longer.”

                 Had all his blood not currently been sprinting in the direction of his dick, Dean wouldn’t have been so careless with his choice of words. As it is, he really has no one but himself to blame when he hears the snap of an artificial camera shutter. He breaks away from Emmanuel – whose whine of displease will follow Dean to his early grave – to spear Misha with an acidic glare.

                 Misha pays him no mind, hooded gaze locked on the tiny phone screen. “Hel- _lo_ new wallpaper,” he chuckles throatily, like melted dark chocolate dripping from a spoon, reverberating from a silk-pink mouth that really, _really_ should be latched onto Dean’s collarbone, and hey, why isn’t it?

               “Jesus, Misha, if you really want to beat off to yourself that badly, there’s Kleenex on the table,” Dean complains. All this cajoling to get into Dean’s metaphorical panties, and now the holdup? Narcissistic asshole. “Manny and I will just enjoy ourselves over here.” To make his point, his bites at Emmanuel’s bottom lip before his tongue sweeps in to soothe the sting, Manny arching into his touch like an overgrown cat. “Ain’t that right, Manny –?”

              Dean yelps when he feels a none-too-gentle pinch to his side. “Oh, no, you’re not the one calling the shots this time, Dean,” Misha says tauntingly into his ear, nipping at the fleshly lobe as he crowds up behind Dean, hands rubbing up and down the broad stretch of Dean's shoulders. “This is my show, and I think you’ll find me to be a very _hands-on_ director.”

              Dean groans in disgust. “I think the word you were looking for was _handsy_. Next thing you’ll be telling me you’ll only give me a role in your next movie if I show you my tits.”

             Unabashed, Misha merely replies in a pleased tone, “It’s like you read my mind. Manny, if you could . . .?”

            On cue, Emmanuel comes up for air from where he’d been kissing his way up Dean’s neck, saliva glistening on his bottom lip and his forehead shiny with sweat. Eyes glassy, cheeks reddened by the burn of Dean’s five o’clock shadow, collar eschew – prim and put-together Emmanuel looks nearly halfway to completely debauched from just a few heated kisses, and Dean can’t even imagine how he’ll good look after a long, hard fuck, but by God, he intends to find out.

            “Dean. . .” he says insistently, tugging at the hem of Dean’s t-shirt. “Get this off.”

            Dean feels his face split into a wide, smirking grin, finding Emmanuel’s urgency a touch adorable. “Well well well,” he drawls with exaggerated laziness making no move to reach for his clothes, “being horny sure does make you bossy, Emmanuel. Who’d have thunk it?”

            “ _Dean_.”

            “Alright, alright, grumpy. Just hold your horses.” It takes a little maneuvering, what with the fact that Emmanuel refuses to unsuction himself from Dean’s lap, but with his enthusiastic help Dean manages to shimmy out of his jacket and t-shirt before tossing them carelessly to the floor where they join Misha’s long discarded snowflake jacket. “There. Happy?”

            Misha hums, gaze drifting appreciatively down Dean’s chest. “Mmm, very. Your opinion, Emmanuel?”

            For a moment Emmanuel says nothing, simply allows his gaze to track down Dean's naked torso with laser-like scrutiny while Dean fights the urge to fidget or suck in his slight gut. Then: "You have more freckles than I originally thought."

            Not knowing how to take that, Dean says inanely, "Um, yeah. Thanks."  

            "They look like constellations," Emmanuel continues more to himself, seemingly entranced as he reaches out to brush a hesitant finger against a particularly freckled patch of skin near Dean's hipbone.

            “So, uh . . .” Dean sniffs, resisting the urge to clap and rub his hands together. “How we doin' this thing? You guys want me to –?”

            “You don't need to do a thing, Not-Jensen. For now, you just let Manny and me do all the work,” says Misha.

            Slipping out from behind him, Misha puts a hand to Dean’s shoulder, wordlessly encouraging him to lie back fully across the bed, for which Emmanuel finally relinquishes his coveted seat. Reluctantly, Dean allows himself to be pushed, trepidation already building underneath this skin.

            “You’re not gonna make this weird, right?” Dean anxiously asks Misha as lays himself lengthwise against Dean so he can kiss the corded muscles of Dean’s naked left shoulder. “Like, ‘break out the chains and hot pink feather boas’ kind of weird?”

            Misha’s only response is a hot murmur of: “Hmm, now there’s an idea.”

            Dean gulps, already regretting his smart mouth. “What is?”

            “Tying you up in chains. Laying you out like a buffet for me and Manny.” Dean’s breath stutters on its way out as Misha bites at his Adam’s apple, his eyes squeezing shut and fists curling into tight balls. “Maybe then you’ll finally behave. Now, don’t move.”

            Conflicting signals racket through Dean’s brain like pinballs caught between two bumpers. One minute he’s tongue-fucking Emmanuel ruthlessly, manhandling him as he sees fit, the next he’s laid out on his back, at the mercy of Misha’s sinful mouth. Not to toot his own horn, but Dean's had a lot of sex in the past. Like a _lot_. And always, _always_ , he made sure he had a degree of control, that he was the one ultimately calling the shots, even when underneath his partner. It had been like that with Lisa and Cassie - only Rhonda Hurley and her pink panties had ever come the closest to unraveling Dean Winchester's tightly knit ball of control. It's not that he doesn't enjoy occasionally lying back and letting his partner doing the heavy-lifting, so to speak, it's just safer if he keeps one hand on the reins at all times. Now, however, Misha is not only asking Dean to give himself over to him, he's demanding it, and although Dean feels a lingering initial hesitance, it's nearly overcome by excitement. Possibilities run rampant in Dean’s mind: Dean plowing into one twin from behind while the other watches before fucking him as well, Dean in the middle of a twin sandwich, Dean getting absolutely  _wrecked_  in both ends, used like a toy –

            "Oh. What's this now?" It’s not until Misha’s thumb is brushing up against it that Dean remembers the Mark, and with a flash of panic, he darts his gaze to Misha’s inscrutable expression, scrambling to come up with an explanation.

             All Misha says, however, is, “This is gonna be another dumb storyline, isn’t it?”

             “Yeah, something like that,” Dean breathes out, allowing himself to relax by degrees, Misha already moving on.

            “Come on, Manny, don’t just sit there. Get in on this.” Even though the touch is expected, Dean’s right pectoral still twitches where fingertips graze hesitantly against it. It’s Emmanuel’s hands, his healer hands, calloused from past lives of Castiel yet still incongruously gentle, unhurried as they learn the slopes and planes over Dean’s body. Dean peeks through his eyelashes enough to see Emmanuel’s reverent expression, fascinated and yet intently focused on his task as he sits between Dean's spread legs. The sight makes Dean’s heart thump unevenly in his chest, limbs twitching to reach out and touch him back. But a sharp glance from Misha keeps his hands where they are, fisting the sheets compulsively. 

            “So tell me, Not-Jensen,” comes Misha’s husky voice as he practically lays himself half atop Dean, nimble fingers smoothing their way down his chest to play with the wiry hair as his naval before slipping under his jeans to cup his dick, now fully erect and pressing urgently against the inside of his jeans. Dean gasps at the touch, shuddering, hips jerking and Misha's smile grows wicked as the pad of one finger dabs at the moisture collecting at the front of his boxers, running along the sensitive head. “I’ve always been curious, some might even say too curious, but tell me: are you a grower or a shower?”

            It's only when Misha's eyes dart up to meet his, one glossy black eyebrow quirked, that Dean realizes that had been Misha's unorthodox way of asking for permission.

            Distracted by Manny's increasingly bold hand movements skimming down the curve of his ribs, it's a miracle Dean manages to choke out, "Why don't you find out?"

            "Don't mind if I do." Misha wastes no time in freeing Dean's dick from the confines of his jeans, urgency akin to that of a child opening their first present Christmas morning. Misha's hand is warm and sweat-slick where it wraps around him, long fingers splayed fully across Dean's girth as he slowly jerks him, the foreskin slipping over the ruddy head. “Mmm, _definitely_ a grower. God, any other time I’d want that fat cock filling me up." Dean's cock dribbles precome onto Misha's hand, making it as filthy as Misha's words. "But, unfortunately, this isn’t going to about me.” 

            Dean huffs a laugh, shivering when Emmanuel's questing fingers brush against a particularly sensitive spot. “I thought everything was always about you."

            "Not tonight, it's not," Misha breathes into his ear, leaning down to nuzzle sweetly against Dean's cheek, a juxtaposition to the increased pressure around his cock as Misha tightens his grip.

            "Seems, uh . . . seems a little unfair –” Dean's growl of frustration sharply dovetails into a heavy moan at a clever twist of Misha’s hand, Dean squirming desperately against the mattress with his pants around his ankles as his muscles twitch spasmodically with his desperate need to come, to touch, to do _something_. “What with me being the only one dressed for the occasion."

            "Patience," Misha tsks. "Let us have a little fun first. And if you're a good boy and behave, I might even reward you." Without further ado Misha kicks this thing into fourth gear, spitting into his palm for crude lubrication before stripping Dean's cock furiously, his other hand moving down to cup his balls in a decisively possessive hold. For something as banal as a handjob, it feels _amazing_ , Misha lacking any of the initial hesitance that Jimmy or the angel Castiel had shown when touching him. If Dean could be in love with a body part, those hands would be hearing a wedding proposal from him. 

           It's torture not being able to bury a hand in Emmanuel's thick hair as he kisses and licks (and, at Misha's encouragement, occasionally nips) his way up Dean's chest, almost fully on top of him, or grind forward where Emmanuel's knee rests in the vee of Dean's legs. It's an overload of stimulation, Dean feeling pulled in opposite directions, like a charged metal caught between two magnets.

            "God, you're so good at this, Mish. Saw how much you enjoyed kissing Manny - you ever touch any of the others like this?" Dean babbles, delirious in his pleasure as the words spill from his mouth without censorship. 

             Misha's low growl is gravel-rough in Dean's ear, and Dean swears he can feel it like a physical touch. "Oh, you’ve been thinking about us like that? What, you’d thought it be me and the stoner? That we’d have a little orgy together? Tell me, have you thought about who of us would be the bottom, begging to be fucked harder, and who would be the dominating top? Tell me, you think I’m easy? For you, I would be."

            _So close. So close._ His hips are twitching involuntarily now, erratic, orange-and-neon green toes curling. "Mish, what ever you do, don't stop talking," he pants, eyes squeezed shut to better hear that hoarse voice that's vibrating through his bones.

             "Well, aren't you just full of surprises? Should have known you'd have a voice kink. You should be thanking me, you know,’ I mean, it was my idea to give Cas that gargles-gravel-for-breakfast voice that always makes you pop a boner.

             Having only enough strength to open one eye, Dean pants, “Don’t I stroke your ego enough?”

             "Hmm, I got something else you can stroke." 

             Dean chokes on a chuckle. “Perv.

             “Tease,” Misha volleys back, eyes glittering like two polished blue stones. Then, pink lips hovering just above Dean's ear, in a perfect imitation of the hoarse rumble Dean would recognize instantly even in a crowded room, Misha whispers, " _Come for me, Dean_ ," just before swiping down against the leaking slit of his cock.

             Like a switch thrown, Dean’s orgasm creeps up on him and catches him completely unaware, and it’s all he can do to stay conscious. Groaning pitifully, he rides through the crippling pleasure with his fingers scrambling desperately against the sheets, back bowed as his dick pulses Misha’s hand, thick white globs running down his knuckles. On and on it goes, what must be mere seconds feels like a millennia, Misha quietly working him through it all the while until his flesh becomes oversensitive and Dean whines plaintively from the near-pain.

            “Ah, _fuck_ ,” Dean breathes emphatically when it finally begins to recede, a breathy chuckle escaping him as he slowly comes back to his senses enough to realize he just might have experienced one of the best orgasms of his life from a _handjob_. “That was – wow, no offense, Misha, but maybe you picked the wrong career. I mean – whoo boy!”  

            “I’m flattered, Dean, but that was just something to take the edge off.” Misha smirks, removing his still filthy hand from Dean’s cock to study it with apparent interest. ”Now we can move on to the main course.” Something catches his attention, and after a moment he dabs at his face with his clean hand. “Ah, Manny, you’ve got something there –”

            Dean follows his gaze, and his heart nearly gives out when he sees Emmanuel, still hovering over Dean with his face hanging precariously near his waning cock, several drops of spunk still clinging to his cheek and sooty black eyelashes.

            “Ah, crap, sorry ‘bout that, Manny,” Dean mumbles shamefacedly (though unable to pull his gaze away from the entrancing sight all the same), as he struggles to pull himself up onto shaky elbows and reach out. “Here, lemme just –”

            But Emmanuel waves him off. “It is no problem, Dean. Allow me.” Looking anything but putout, Emmanuel brushes a thumb against his cheek, careful to collect the splatter on the pad. Dean feels his breath catch, can only stare openmouthed as Emmanuel brings it closer for inspection, and then lets out a low moan when his pink tongue darts out to taste Dean’s spunk, licking it up in one go.

            After a moment;s contemplation, Emmanuel grimaces, nose wrinkling. “I don’t know what I expected, but certainly nothing that unpleasant.”

            Dean cannot help but choke back a fit of giggles as he reaches out to gently wipe the rest from his cheek. “Sorry, Manny. I'll make sure to down some pre-sex pineapple juice next time.” At Emmanuel's look, he explains patiently, "Makes cum taste better."

            At that Emmanuel’s face screws up further. “I don’t much care for pineapple, neither.”

            “That’s all right, Manny. Jizz is an acquired taste,” Misha says over Dean’s renewed burst of braying laughter. “You see, though – Dean here _loves_ come.” Dean abruptly stops laughing at that to give him a withering glare, but, unsurprisingly, he goes unacknowledged. “Loves is so much, in fact, that he’s gonna clean me up.” Draping one arm across Dean’s abdomen, Misha offers up his hand, still filthy with Dean’s not-yet-drying come. “Ain’t that right, Dean? Gonna use those pretty lips and suck me clean?”

            Jaw tight, Dean says nothing, staring down Misha’s taunting mug before pursing his lips in calculation. _Well, two can play at that game_ , he thinks, kicking his jeans off his ankles. Without waiting for Misha’s permission, Dean takes hold of his wrist and reels it in, pushing his fingers through the tight ring of lips as he takes Misha into his mouth. And, oh boy, does Dean make sure Misha gets his money's worth, none of that pansy-ass teasing. He bobs his head vigorously as he works, slipping his tongue between Misha’s fingers until the tang of his own spend rests heavy on it, slurping nosily and probably making a bigger mess than they started out with, all the while making sure under no circumstances does his gaze leave Misha’s. Misha stares back as he slips his fingers lazily back and forth in Dean’s mouth, though he's careful not to make Dean gag. Eyelids growing heavy, Dean works in a few moans that may or may not be genuine, and he feels the pulse in Misha’s wrist flutter beneath his fingertips. Soon, it’s Dean who wears the self-satisfied smirk.

           When Misha reluctantly frees his fingers from Dean’s mouth, it’s with a shaky, disjointed breath, his half-lidded eyes glued to Dean’s.

           “Oh, Dean,” he breathes, incongruously gentle for what just happened. He runs a split-soaked thumb under Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean blinks, feeling like he missed a step somewhere. “If only you and I had more time. The things we would do. . . .” Shaking his head with a resigned sigh, he plasters his usual smirk back in his face before turning to Emmanuel. “See, Manny?”

            Emmanuel’s eyes are wide, expression flushed and a little dazed. “That certainly was . . . educational,” he says, voice breathier than Dean’s ever heard it, and with it he feels a spike of pride run through him.

            “Hmm, I think someone’s ready to get this party started,” Misha hums, seemingly back in control. “Manny, you want to disrobe by yourself, or you want Dean to lend a hand?”

            Dean perks up a little at that, and it’s hard not to cast a hopeful glance Emmanuel’s way, even as fantasies play out in his head of running his hands over the diamond-hard cut of those hip bones as he inches Manny’s pants down his thighs.

            But turns out Dean’s in luck. “I . . . Dean’s help would appreciated – of course, if that’s all right with him?” he adds hastily, glancing nervously at Dean.

            “Yep – I mean, yeah, I mean yes. Yes, I can do, um, that,” he says, trying and failing not to sound too overeager. “What about you, Mish?”

            “Already three steps ahead of you,” Misha says, already unzipping his jeans and shoving them off to reveal orange boxer-briefs, the same shade as half of Dean’s toenails.

            Dean whistles lowly. “ _Wow_. And here I thought the snowflake jacket had been bad.”  He puts a hand against his brow to shade his eyes. “What, is your dick biohazardous or something?”

            “Try to contain your jealousy, Dean,” Misha retorts, crossing his arms across his chest to pull his t-shirt up and over his head, giving Dean a fantastic view of a hard, muscle-packed stomach and toned pecs. In short, dude is _buff_. Maybe there’s something to be said for the rabbit food lifestyle after all.

           “I think you’re confusing jealousy with vision damage.” Tearing his gaze away from Misha’s body with much reluctance, Dean skootches up onto his butt, beckoning Emmanuel forward. “You ready, Manny? Remember – speak up if I’m going too fast or –”

            “I’m ready,” he says quickly, and proves it by pushing himself firmly into Dean’s space. Holding his gaze, Emmanuel takes Dean’s hands and guides them to his hips, on the line where the hem of his cardigan and the band of his pants meet.

            Dean smirks. “Message received loud and clear.”

            Still, he takes his time undressing Emmanuel, keeping their gazes locked as he pops the top button of his pants, tugging the zipper down. It’s while Dean is smoothing his hands slowly through the wiry dark hair on Emmanuel’s legs as he pulls his pants and store-brand boxers down, that he discovers Emmanuel is rather ticklish, something he takes no small amount of delight in using to his advantage. They’re both giggly and short of breath by the time Dean unzips his navy cardigan, pressing little kisses to the bolt of his jaw until he can work on the button-up under the cardigan and white Hanes tee under that.

              “Knew there was a real boy under all those layers,” Dean says when he tosses the last article of clothing to the floor in a victory spike.

             “Not a boy,” Emmanuel growls as he surges forward and crowds Dean against into Misha’s solid figure, grinding his cock against Dean’s bare thigh and smearing a line of precome there to prove his point.

             Dean laughs as Emmanuel nibbles determinedly on his collarbone, running a placating hand through the back of his hair. “Easy there, tiger, I know, it was just a – never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

              Beside him, Misha hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder. “Everyone ready to get in to the heavy stuff? Now, Dean, I want you start prepping, Emmanuel, okay?” Dean feels a bolt of white-hot heat jolt him, and he barely remembers to nod when Misha asks him for an affirmative. “You’re gonna get him nice and wet, open him up real good for your cock.”

             “Prepping?”  Emmanuel asks, brows pulling in.

             “Uh huh,” Misha says. “Means Dean is gonna use whatever he needs – his fingers, his tongue – to stretch our your tight little hole so he won’t hurt you when he pushes that fucking monster cock into you.”

             Emmanuel nods, like it makes reasonable sense in him. Dean would give all the pie in the world to know what he thinking right that very minute, because Dean feels like he just might be having a stroke and a heart attack all rolled into one.

             “Not gonna have any problems with a repeat performance, are we, Dean?” Misha asks, hand curling tight over his inner thigh near his groin.

             Dean rolls his eyes, even as he feels a flush that burns like fire break out across his face. “You don’t worry about that, I got it covered. What about you? What’s your role in all this, ‘cause I gotta tell you, Misha, I’m not all that into voyeurism.” 

             “Aww, not even a little?” Misha pouts. “I promise it’ll just be for a bit, just so you can have Emmanuel to yourself, but when you’re almost done –” he presses his lips to Dean’s ear, whispering, “I’m going to spread those freckled asscheeks and eat you out ‘til you’re begging me to let you come. I’ve give you a finger, let you work your way up to four, and when you’re all loose around my fingers, I’m gonna give you what you really want.”

              “Is it a bacon-flavored lollipop?” Dean asks dryly, though his heart is practically river-dancing in his chest.

             “Close your eyes and maybe I’ll give you a taste so you can find out for yourself,” he replies, making a startled but pleased sound when Dean wraps his hand around his neck to bring him into a biting kiss.

             After that there’s a reversal of positions, with Emmanuel skootching back to spread himself out lengthwise, his head resting at the foot of the bed with the addition of a pillow to prop up his hips more comfortably. His nice-looking cock, the same cock Dean’s seen four times now, rests high against his belly. A half-empty bottle of lube lies near his elbow, unearthed from the deepest parts of Dean's bedside table. Taking a deep breath, Dean hovers over him, hyperaware of how close his ass is to Misha’s face like this. It’s a tight fit, and Dean’s got nothing but Misha’s reassurance that this will actually work.

             “Manny, how about you rest your legs on my shoulders? I’ll be easier that way.” He feels Misha’s calloused palm press circles into the fleshy part of his leg, praising him.

             Emmanuel’s hesitation lasts for no more than a few seconds before he follows Dean’s request, sliding back a little further to hook his ankles on his shoulders, exposing the dark furl of muscle behind his tightly drawn-up balls.

             Dean doesn’t realize he’s been staring until he feels Emmanuel kick his heels impatiently against Dean’s back. “Dean,” he whines plaintively. “ _Please_.”

             “You don’t need an engraved invitation, Dean,” he hears Misha say behind him. “Touch him.”

             Dean won’t let himself be rushed, however, makes sure he has a generous dollop of lube smathered on his fingers before pressing the tip of his thumb against Emmanuel’s entrance, massaging the rim while his other hand brushes teasingly against Emmanuel’s perineum. The hitch in Emmanuel’s breathing is deafening like the beat of a snare drum in the otherwise silent room. Eyeing Emmanuel’s reactions carefully, Dean presses down until his thumb sinks into the tight warmth of his body. Emmanuel only freezes for a half-second from the alien feeling before he relaxes into it, even going so far as to let his hips rock minutely into Dean’s thumb.

             “Doing so good, Manny,” Dean praises softly, captivated by a sight so simple as his thumb plunging in and out of the welcoming glove of Emmanuel’s hole. “Just breathe, yeah, just like that. Taking it so well. Think you can take more?”

             Emmanuel’s response is an emphatic, “ _Yes_!” and Dean finds himself grinning even as he pulls out to slather more lube on his hand. 

             Working Emmanuel open is a delicate process, and Dean proceeds with caution, wiggling in one finger and then another when Emmanuel shows no signs of discomfort. His erection has flagged slightly, but Dean works to remedy that, concentrating as he searches for that one particular spot . . .

             Dean swears Emmanuel damn near jumps off the bed when he brushes against the sensitive gland. Panting unsteadily, he cranes his neck to stare at Dean like he just hung not only the moon but all the stars in the sky. “W-what was that?”

             “That, Manny, is the reason there’s no way God can be against two dudes having sex,” Dean explains with a cocky grin. “You ready for three?”

             For the first time, a flash of hesitance crosses Emmanuel’s face, his body noticeably stiffening. “I . . . I think I –”

            “Hey hey hey,” Dean shushes gently, bending down despite his back protesting the awkward contortion to nuzzle against Emmanuel’s face. “None of that now. We’ll get there, but only when you’re ready. For now, I got something up my sleeve I think you might like. . . .”

             It takes a little maneuvering to keep Emmanuel’s ankles dangling from Dean’s shoulders, and his ass practically ends up in Misha’s lap when he backs up for space, but he manages to get his face situated close enough to wrap his mouth around Emmanuel’s leaking cock, a burst of precome hitting his tongue the moment he swipes it against the plummy head. Letting out a long, drawn-out groan that Dean can feel vibrate through his jaw, Emmanuel throws his head back almost violently against the mattress, seemingly enraptured as Dean sucks him down while simultaneously fucking his fingers in and out of his loosening hole.

 _He tastes exactly like Angel Cas had in the dream,_ Dean notes, and it isn’t until Dean feels a wave of relief crash over him that he realizes he had been afraid it would be different in the waking world, and therefore, his first time with Cas less real.

            Surreal as this moment is, nothing about this feels fake or imaginary. Everything is in screaming color, Dean soaking in every vivid detail for future use. Toes curling in the sheets, seemingly unaware of the little shifts of his hips that drive his cock past Dean’s lips, Emmanuel is lost in his pleasure, moans a near constant drone, and the muscles in his thighs trembling in Dean’s hand. Behind him, he can hear the wet sounds of Misha tugging on his lube-slicked cock, the heat of the slick shaft branding Dean where it bumps against the crack of his own ass while Misha palms Dean’s thigh, movements rough in his barely concealed excitement. Dean smiles to himself (as much as his preoccupied mouth can, that is), pleased that Emmanuel’s not the only one enjoying himself.

            It’s when Dean’s slipping in a third finger while he’s got Emmanuel all nice and pliant, corkscrewing his tongue around his throbbing length, that he feels hands smooth down his back before coming to rest at the globes of his ass, toying at his crack.

            “Not that I don’t enjoy being a third wheel as much as anyone else, but it’s time to quit hogging all the fun.”

            Even though he knows it’s coming, Dean still jumps at the first touch of Misha’s long wet tongue licking a straight line against his hole, pulling off Emmanuel’s dick so he doesn’t choke but not removing his fingers. He takes that opportunity to catch his breath, letting himself acclimate to the unfamiliar feeling. There’s no way to trick himself into thinking it’s anything other than a tongue (unless thinking it’s a slimy thick slug, which, ew, gross), and up until now, Dean’s been in the business of keeping wet, squirming things far away from the vicinity of his ass (Okay, okay, so there was that one freaky waitress at the bar in Tampa, but that had been a one-time thing). It’s not exactly a pleasant sensation, per se . . . but there are little electric sparks bursting along the nerves of Dean’s rim with each swipe, Misha's scruff rubbing deliciously against his sensitive ass, and the more Misha does it, the more Dean’s body decides the intrusion is something to welcome.

           Gradually, Dean begins rocking his hips back, against Misha’s tongue, making sure to match the rhythm to his strokes against Emmanuel’s prostate. Nose digging into Dean’s soft flesh, Misha hums directly against his hole – and wow, that alone just shot the sensation up from _interesting_ to _holy freakin’ colonic, Batman_! – before spreading Dean’s cheeks further. The only warning Dean gets is the quick kiss pressed to his left ass cheek before working his tongue deeper into Dean’s hole, aided by Misha’s clever finger.

            It might not be Dean’s proudest moment, on his knees with his fingers up another man’s ass while he moans like a two-dollar whore for getting his own ass eaten out, but as he figures it, pride goeth before the . . . coming . . . or something like that.

            “Oh, god _damn_ , Mish,” he hisses softly, knees shaking as he reaches back to grab whatever part of Misha he can reach. "You’re a genius.”

            “Doesn’t our Dean sing so beautifully, Manny?” Misha asks when he comes up for a brief reprise. “But I think it’s time for him to get back to work before we all pop.”

             This time, when Dean’s got four fingers working in and out of Emmanuel, twisting back and forth and opening up his virgin channel, his own ass is being worked open by Misha, saliva running down his asscrack as Misha sloppily eats him out. He only touches Manny’s cock once, but when Misha pointedly tugs on his balls, Dean takes the hint and focuses all his attention on Emmanuel’s hole, neglecting his slowly purpling member.

              “Dean, please . . .” Emmanuel eventually says, staring beseechingly up at Dean. “It – it’s not enough. I can’t – I need –”

               “Sounds like he’s ready, Dean,” Misha says. Behind him, Dean’s hole feels wet and gaping, but he hardly notices, too focused on the sight before him. Castiel naked and debauched in Dean’s bed. How many times has he imagined this in the shower or under the sheets? “Care to do the honors?”

               Gently, Dean eases Emmanuel’s legs down off his shoulders, encouraging him to keep them spread. He takes a second to add another generous dollop of lube, pouring it directly into Emmanuel’s entrance ( _nearly empty, shit_ ) and then taking his cock in hand, rubbing the head against Emmanuel’s puckered hole to slick himself. With Emmanuel watching avidly and Misha breathing heavily against his neck, he takes a few practices thrusts, testing the give of the newly-stretched flesh. When his cockhead sinks in by an inch, Emmanuel hisses softly, his thighs pressing tighter against Dean’s side.  

               “Hey.” Leaning down, Dean tenderly brushes a damp curl out of Emmanuel’s face before cupping his cheek, his thumb tracing the hollow under his eye. He takes it as a good sign that Emmanuel leans into the touch, eyes half-lidded where they stare up at him. “You're doing so well. Gonna make you feel so good, Manny.”

               “No more waiting,” Emmanuel breathes, hoarse but lucid. “Dean, _please_.”

               Sweat beads on Dean’s forehead as he slowly guides his cock into Emmanuel. For a moment, there’s nothing – and then Dean is easing his way inside the hot clench of Emmanuel’s ass, working his hips gently to open him further up. When he finally bottoms out, his balls resting against Emmanuel’s backside, Dean tips his head back and moans languorously, reveling in the unbelievable tightness fitting his cock like a clove. This is nothing like the dream with Angel Cas and yet exactly identical in every way that counts.

             They lie there together, just the two of them, caught in the moment before they tip over the point of no-return. Starry-eyed and red-faced, Emmanuel stares up at Dean. “Beautiful. Dean, you’re so . . . so beautiful.”

               Flushing, Dean ducks his head, hyperaware of the paunch he’s developed from the habitual drinking, the dozens of scars collected since Castiel resurrected him, the angry red cut that is the Mark of Cain tattooed on his arm, possibly forever. “No need to keep it up with the sweet talk anymore. You got me right where you wanted me,” he says, and then flinches immediately in shame.

               Emmanuel’s eyes widen in horror. Cupping the back of Dean’s head, he gazes steadily back at Dean, fierce expression a stark contrast the warmth kindling in his eyes. “You honestly can’t see how beautiful you are, how your goodness shines through like a beacon. Oh," he breathes, gaze going soft, "how could I have ever forgotten you?”

               “You still see souls?” Dean asks, a little curious.

               “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” he says with a frown, “but I can see _you_.”

               Dean holds Emmanuel’s gaze for a moment longer, searching without knowing what for. “Misha, you aren’t sleeping back there, you?” he asks, taking the coward’s way out and pretending he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt and disappointment in Emmanuel’s gaze.

               "Just giving you two lovebirds your moment," he hears Misha drawl huskily from behind him.

               Fingertips poke experimentally at his hole, spreading him wide for Misha’s inspection, and Dean’s cock pulses in warning from inside its snug home in Emmanuel, telling Dean he’s already pushing luck, any more stimulation might have him going off like a fire hydrant.

               “Misha,” he says, glancing pleadingly over his shoulder. " _Now_."

               Misha doesn’t leave him hanging, and after repeating Dean’s administrations with the lube, he presses his cock against Dean’s hole and pushes in and . . . and it stings. More than Dean had thought it would. Before he’s even realizing it, he’s clenching down, body locking up as his breath stutters in uneven gasps as he bites down on his lip less he cry out in pain.

                “Hey . . . You okay?” he hears Misha ask him. Though he doesn’t say anything, Emmanuel’s grip is like iron on Dean’s wrist, a hint of that angelic origin leaking through. His worry is palpable. "Just take it easy, Dean. You've got this. Just breathe."

                 Focusing on Misha's voice, Dean breathes deeply through his nose and counts to five, ten, fifteen . . . and eventually the sting recedes, leaving behind nothing but an insatiable hunger inside him, an ache to fill and be filled, to never be alone again.

                 He looks over his shoulder with half-lidded eyes, giving Misha his best shit-eating grin. “Just getting warmed up. Come on, Misha.” He gives an experimental clench where Misha is thick and warm inside him, watching in delight as he gasps and shudders over him. “Fuck us both.”

                 After all that buildup, it doesn’t take long for things to quickly unravel, for the dominoes to fall as the momentum builds to a crescendo. Underneath Dean, Emmanuel is a mess, red-faced and hair rucked up every which way, his whines quickly deteriorating into high-pitched yelps of pleasure at each solid thrust of Dean’s hips, fisting himself desperately as Dean practically bounces him on his cock. The sweat-slicked skin of his chest sticking where he's plastered along Dean's back, Misha’s growl is a constant rumble in Dean’s ear, his hands pressing what Dean is sure will be bruises in the morning on his hips, forcing Dean to take one punishing thrust after another, brushing against his prostate on nearly every third strike as his balls slap heavily against his ass. Dean’s elbows tremble as he gets swept away in the ebb and flow, fighting valiantly to keep him from collapsing on top of Emmanuel.  The bed is creaking now under their combined shoving, and Dean spares a thought to worry that his poor bed frame just might not survive the night.

                 And Dean – oh, how he loves it. Maybe he was never meant to be a civilian, maybe he was never meant to be a father or a husband or even a particularly good brother, but this, being trapped between Emmanuel's legs and pinned by Misha’s thick shaft – He was made for this. This is his true destiny, the one Heaven and Hell overlooked. He’s a vessel, a vessel for Misha’s cock and Emmanuel’s warm hole, he thinks deliriously.

               “Ah ah ah – Dean, ‘s so good. I – I never knew it could – _oh!_ – be this good,” Emmanuel gasps into Dean’s open mouth, nails scrambling for purchase on his sides.

               Still thrusting into him, Dean puts his mouth against Emmanuel's ear. “I’m so glad I found you again. Sorry I took so long.”

              He feels the line of Emmanuel’s nose nuzzle against the soft spot just below Dean’s ear.  “I believe that’s my line.”

              “You’ll always find each other again, Dean,” he hears Misha pant, snuggling closer even as he picks up the pace until Dean’s teeth are clacking with every jolt, strangled grunts forcing there way from his windpipe. “One way or another, you always do.”

               To the surprise of no one, Emmanuel is the first to come, eyes clenched shut and his mouth opened on a wordless scream as his release shoots up between him and Dean, splattering onto his heaving stomach. The sudden clenching pressure around his dick nearly does Dean in, but he fights it, muscles locked tight as though the slightest twitch could set him off, staving his orgasm off by the skin of his teeth until the pressure in his balls eases by the most marginal of degrees. Though he looks utterly exhausted, hiccuping adorably with the aftershocks, Emmanuel keeps pushing his hips down against Dean’s cock, seemingly determined not to rest until he gets Dean off, too. After that it’s a race between Dean and Misha, a competition to see who can break first as they rut together on Dean's bed like mindless animals.

             "Yeah, that's it. Take my fat cock," Misha snarls, arms tightening around Dean’s waist as he fucks him harder. "Know you want it, Jen. Mmm, fuck, yeah. You’re so fucking perfect like this."

             “Mish, _please_ ,” he pleads senselessly, still fucking into Emmanuel as Misha ruthlessly rides his own ass, feeling like he’s going to lose his goddamn mind if he doesn’t come in the next minute. “Don’t you dare stop.”

            Honestly, it's impossible to say who eventually does, ahem, finish last, what with Dean tightening his muscles around Misha's cock the same time Misha bites down on a particularly sensitive part of Dean's neck. _Really, though_ , Dean thinks deliriously, as while he harshly groans as though something’s been torn away from him, emptying himself into Emmanuel’s ass, _there's a lot worse things to lose._

            Chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath, Dean manages to hold himself up long enough for his softening dick to slip out of Emmanuel, Misha’s own coming loose with an accompanying trickle of come sliding down the back of his thigh (which, ew,  _gross_ ), before his legs finally throw in the towel and he’s toppling sideways into the pillows with a soft groan, taking Emmanuel and Misha willingly with him. Right about then Dean’s content to sleep into next week among this tangled nest of limbs, but after much grumbling from Misha, he gets up long enough to rearrange them into a more comfortable arrangement, ending up with Emmanuel nestled snuggly within Dean’s arms, his head pillowed on Dean’s chest, near his heart, with Misha plastered back against Dean’s side, one arm wrapped the other two with his other hand running idle fingers through Dean’s hair. It’s lulling, and Dean doesn’t realize just how soothing it is until he’s being startled awake by something rough swiping against the back of his leg near his ass. It’s just Misha, however, he quickly realizes, cleaning up the nearly-dried come with some tissues he retrieved from the bedside table. When he finishes up with Dean and tosses the crumbled up wads five feet short of the trash can, and he hands some to Dean, who after a little gentle coaxing of an adorably grumpy Emmanuel – “Yeah, yeah, I know, shhh, trust me, you’ll feel better,” he soothes – manages to fight off his octopus limbs and clean him up as well. He tosses them away carelessly when he finishes, settling himself in. 

            All that's left to do now is wait.

            Lying in the bed, wrapped up in sweaty sheets smelling of Emmanuel, Misha, and his own musky scent, Dean lets himself enjoy the afterglow, knowing that come tomorrow his life will be right back in the shitter. Castiel, the other clones, and then Abaddon and Gadreel and Metatron – all that is waiting for him outside his bedroom door. For now, though, he takes Misha’s advice and allows himself to simply enjoy the moment. He’s exhausted, the aftershocks of his mind-shattering orgasm settling into his bones and muscles like water through soil. The soreness of his ass is a little new, of course, but Dean finds that even that is mildly pleasant. Warmth ripples through him every time he mentally replays the moment the head of Misha’s fat cock squeezed past his rim as it breached his ass for the first time.

            “Was it everything you thought it would be?” Misha mumbles quietly into his ear, his sex-rough voice now registering at Cas-levels. Dean’s dick twitches at it, making a valiant attempt for a round-two that’ll never happen.

           “You really gotta stop reading my mind,” Dean mumbles in sleepy complaint. “Really start to wig me out.”

            Misha huffs a laugh before nibbling at the loose, freckled skin of Dean's nape. “I don’t have to read your mind. I can tell by your big dumb grin, you sap.” He grabs possessively at Dean’s ass before swatting at the fleshy globes. “How's that for pity sex?"

            “Ah, you _as_ s!” Dean hisses, trying futilely to wiggle away.

            “ _My_ ass,” Misha corrects, pressing a kiss into Dean’s hair before tugging him closer, nuzzling the back of his neck. “All mine.”

            Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn't pull away. He's done more than enough of that. “Shut up and kiss me, asshole,” he says, tilting his chin up in clear demand.

            Misha chuckles, eyes and noses crinkling in delight. “Aww. Such a bossy bottom,” he coos, but he relents all the same, and when he kisses Dean, it’s soft and unrushed, like they have all the time in the world to lie here in this bed together. Maybe Dean’s not the only one reluctant for this golden moment of peace to shatter.

            When Misha pulls away long moments later, Dean will deny until his very last breath that the corners of his eyes are prickling with unshed tears. He does his best to surreptitiously wipe his face with the back of his hand, Misha for once tactfully pretending he doesn't notice.

            Meanwhile, Emmanuel’s already out like a light, purring little breathy snores against Dean’s chest. He looks sated, face smooth and untroubled. The corner of Dean’s mouth pulls up in a soft smile as he watches him. “Awww, ain’t he a little angel?”

            “Way to recycle lines,” Misha snorts, but he too watches Emmanuel, his affectionate grin identical to Dean’s. Long moments pass until, in a tone that suggests Misha is inquiring about nothing more important than the weather forecast, he asks, "How much longer?”

            “Not much,” Dean answers quietly, not needing further explanation. “It won’t hurt. You’ll just go all glowly and . . . fade away, I guess, back to your world.”

             “Hopefully,” Misha says after a taking a moment to process this.

             “Hopefully,” he agrees, twisting to press a comforting kiss on the underside of Misha’s jaw. “Think I should wake him up?”

             Misha glances down at Emmanuel thoughtfully, brows furrowed. “No. Why?”

             Eyes glued to Emmanuel’s peaceful mien, Dean dares to brush two knuckles tenderly down his face. He doesn’t react other than to press into Dean’s touch, although Dean might just be imagining that bit. “Dunno. Maybe to say . . . a few words.” No matter how hard he tries, Dean can’t bring himself to say the word _goodbye_. Not yet, he’s not ready. Might not ever be ready. . . .

            “Let him sleep,” Misha eventually decides, uncharacteristically somber. “It’ll be easier on him. He can wake up and be, well, not _home_ , I guess, but where he belongs for now.”

             All the same, Dean holds onto Emmanuel that much tighter, mindful not to wake him, tucking his head under his chin and clenching his eyes tight.

            "It’s a shame, really,” Misha muses, resuming carding a hand through Dean’s hair as though he can feel the tension strumming through him. “I wouldn’t have minded another go. You weren’t half-bad.”

            Glancing up at him, Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow, irrationally irked. “Wow, thanks for the scintillating reviews.”

            Misha smiles but doesn’t elaborate, a shadow of melancholy falling over him. “Sorry. None of my previous bed partners were big on intimacy,” he says with all his usual bluntness, and a tinge of bitterness that surprises Dean.

            “So, you and, uh, _other-me_ . . . you two never . . .?”

            “No, no, nothing like that,” Misha replies succinctly, avoiding Dean’s gaze. “Jen’s not interested.”

            “In guys?”

            Misha’s mouth thins. “In me.”

            “Oh,” Dean says, several things clicking into place. “Well, you know what? Fuck ‘em. Guy seemed like a major tool anyways.”

            Misha blinks before giving him a gummy smile, though the sadness still hasn’t completely cleared from him eyes. “I’ll miss you, too, Dean.”

            Burying his face into the curve of Misha’s neck, holding tightly onto Emmanuel, Dean confesses for the first time, “I hate this.”

            Misha doesn’t answer, only continues to pet his hair, occasionally pressing a kiss on the crown of his head.

            Against his will, Dean’s eyelids are getting heavy now, his thoughts becoming more difficult to formulate. It must be nearly time, though Dean supposes he should be grateful for the seemingly longer period of time he did get. “Hey, before you leave  . . . Why don’t giraffes get invitations?”

           Pushing himself up on his elbow, Misha stares down at Dean before recognition sparks in his gaze, his face breaking out into a blinding smile. Or maybe that’s just the faintly gold sheen on his skin. “Because those assholes will drink all your beer without bringing any of their own.”

            “. . . Misha, that makes no fucking sense.”

            Shhh.” Misha kisses him on the tip of his nose; behind him, Emmanuel snuggles in tighter, a warm line of heat soaking into Dean’s back. “Just go with it, Dean.”

            Dean thinks he says something else after that, but he’s out like a light before he can make sense of it.

            His dreams start off fuzzy and warm-toned, fanciful things of Dean sitting in the bunker’s kitchen, surrounded by faces, Jody, Kevin, Charlie, Garth, Sam and Cas. Trading jokes and swapping beers. Meaning to tell him something, Dean turns to look at Castiel, only to see Emmanuel, sitting alone in a dark empty house, the windows boarded up and white sheets covering the furniture. Emmanuel stares back at him with dark, accusing eyes.

            The dream changes abruptly, Misha lying dead in the alley, throat slashed in a scarlet necklace. He’s alone in some cold, dank Vancouver alley, far away from Dean or anyone else that ever cared about him.

            When Dean awakens in a cold sweat, alone, his limbs become entangled in the sheets as he throws himself to the floor and he just barely makes it to the bathroom before he’s retches into the toilet, the remnants of yesterday’s meal burning his throat as it comes back up. Tears and snot soon make their way into the noxious stream, Dean sobbing like a child as he cradles the toilet. It’s at least another twenty minutes before he forces himself to get up and wash himself off, trudging back to the empty bed, Emmanuel’s and Misha’s scents still clinging heavily to the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, I'm never writing a threesome ever again. NEVER!!! 
> 
> I'm gonna try to be better about writing a page a day, but I'm still hesitant to put a date on when the next chapter will be up. I'm busy with birthday things (for me and other people) in September, and in October I have a week and a half vacation to Orlando Studios/Disney World, during which I know absolutely no writing will get done. So my goal is mid November, but as always, sometimes being happy with my writing is a struggle :-/ 
> 
> Wanna chat about Nine of a Kind or season 12 of SPN? Come find me at my tumblr: I-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs
> 
> And one more thing!!!! I had a wonderful time at Pittcon, and as of now, I'm planning to attend Pittcon 2017 next September! Hopefully I'll see some of you there!


	18. The Cop-out Chapter (Ghosts that We Knew part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dude, what if I got angelic crabs?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so, yeah, it’s been . . . fuck, nearly three years since I’ve started this story. I never intended to take this long finishing it, but even with starting a full-time job and moving into my own place, the biggest roadblock for me has always been mental. It took me months to finish the first three chapters of Noak because I was afraid my writing wouldn’t be good enough, and now it takes me months to finish a chapter because I’m afraid anything new I write won’t live up to what I’ve previously written. This is in no way any of your guys’ fault - you’ve all been incredibly supportive the entire way and I couldn’t ask for a better cheer squad. All I ask is that you bare with me as we move into the final chapters (which I desperately want to finish by the end of the year, as well as maybe try a few other ideas i've been sitting on for a while). I’ll admit, despite my copious amounts of notes, I feel that I’ve lost the thread of this story a bit, so if anything feels lackluster, or if I forget about certain things, you can blame it on that :P 
> 
> The following chapter is, as the title states, a complete cop-out. It's only 1/3 of what I wanted to post, and the other two thirds are only half way written in spurts. One of the reasons it took me so long was that the previous chapter ended up much more morbid than I had originally planned for, and my previous notes were more light-hearted than the situation now called for. I don’t want this story to be more angst than it has to be, but I also don’t want to handwave away what the characters’ natural responses. So, yeah, this chapter (and the next) could be described as experimental, a bit winding, as we build up to the final Cas-clone scenes. It’s gonna be tough for Dean for a while, there’s gonna be some tears, but there is light at the end of the tunnel for him and the real Cas, I promise.
> 
> Warnings for: Brief mention of 9x03 (Cas/April), Brief mentions of Dean/Leviathan!Cas, nothing graphic, Dean has PTSD despite Angel Cas's mind whammy.

Even though he knew his chances were slim, Dean still woke up early the next morning with the half-formed plan that if he just caught up with Cas before he took off, maybe somehow he’d be able to talk some sense into him, try to cobble together some sort of explanation as to why he’s doing this, apologize to Cas for him finding out the way he did. . . .

Dean ended up doing none of those things, however. Instead, crippled by indecision and second-thoughts, he allowed the minutes to tick steadily by while he remained in bed, staring dully up at the ceiling, every bruise and bite mark that littered his body an accusation that throbbed as though freshly made. So it’s no surprise that when he finally did manage to crawl his way out of bed hours later and stumble his way to the room newly reserved for Cas’s brief visits, there was no response to his hesitant knocking, the room dark and empty when Dean chanced a peek inside. Dean’s lucky no one was around to witness his humiliation firsthand: standing plaintively outside Cas’s door in yesterday’s rumpled clothes for several minutes, wrapped up in his own self-pity, before giving up and retreating with his tail tucked between his legs.

Outside, the pale gold Lincoln Continental that Cas has, inexplicably, taken a liking to is gone as well, though Dean doesn’t know why he bothered checking

            It’s well past noon now. Freshly showered and clad in only his boxers and the gray MOL robe he bequeathed to himself, Dean putters aimlessly around the empty kitchen as he waits for their ancient coffeemaker to decide if it wants to wake up sometime today. He feels like death warmed over, head feeling like it’s been stuffed full with cotton as he hobbles gingerly over to the counter to compensate for his aching backside. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say he was hungover.

With a weary groan, Dean slumps against the counter to stare broodily at the black liquid brewing fitfully in the carafe, mind spinning as he tries to plan out his next course of action and keeps coming up empty. There’s too much white noise in his head, and yet somehow at the same time too many empty, hollow spaces that suck up coherent thoughts like quicksand.

 _Five down, three to go . . . The mad god, the lunatic, and the junkie_. And Dean, one way or another, will have to give a rose to each of them eventually.

Something like fear skitters up his spine, followed closely by the prickly twist of nausea.

_Don’t be afraid for us, Dean, it will not save us._

The countertop rough beneath the grip of his fingers, Dean closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, tries breathing evenly though his nose until the world around him stops spinning like a top and his stomach doesn’t feel like it’s trying to crawl up through his throat . . .

 To think a small part of him had actually been guiltily _excited_ when this whole mess had started.

“Shit.” Dean abruptly brings his hands to the back of his head, burying his fingers in his hair as his upper body bows forward as though crumpling from the weight strapped to his shoulders. He’s shaking, he distantly realizes. And for the first time, alone in the kitchen, Dean breathes out what he’s known from day one: “I can’t do this.” He voice breaks, his intake of breath shaky. “ _I can’t do this. . ._.”

He stands like that long enough for pins and needles to break out across his right leg. Without thinking, he straightens to shift his weight and immediately hisses at the sharp, sudden pain this elicits, the ache in his ass throbbing dully like a reprimand.

“Someone’s looking even more bowlegged than usual,” a smug voice says.

            Scowling, Dean looks up to find Sam padding into the kitchen in sport shorts and a gray muscle tee soaked through with sweat in several places, beat-up sneakers squeaking on the floor and probably tracking in a million germs. Dean can already smell him from here.

            “Dude, is that a _scrunchie_?” Dean eyes Sam’s revolting ponytail in open disgust as Sam opens the fridge to peer inside before taking out a half-empty bottle of spring water. _All-natural_ , the label says, whatever the fuck that means. What comes up through the tap, then? Mercury?

“Relax; it’s just a hair band I borrowed from Charlie. Nothing that’ll offend your delicate sensibilities,” Sam says after downing the entire bottle in one go, grinning. Dean side-eyes his brother dubiously. For all of Sam’s questionable fashion choices, he grudgingly notices that there’s a healthy flush to Sam’s cheeks despite the shine of sweat, a light in his eyes that has been noticeably absent since just before Sam took on the Third Trial.

Doesn’t mean he’s got to be such a dick about it.

“’M not sensitive, _you’re_ sensitive,” Dean grumbles under his breath, turning his back to Sam as he busies himself with the coffeemaker, which is now making ugly gurgling sounds like a death rattle as it spits coffee into the pot. As he pours himself a cup, he feels something small flick the back of his head near his ear and yelps, nearly splashing the piping hot liquid down his front. Hastily grabbing a towel to clean up the mess on the counter, he throws a baleful glare over his shoulder at his idiot brother. “What the hell was that for?”

Sam’s face is completely guileless, his hair now freed and slightly curled at his shoulders. “What? You seemed so interested, I thought you might want one.”

Dean scowls again, pitching the towel into the sink. “You’re pretty damn chipper this morning.” The _considering I thought you were still pissed at me_ remains unsaid, which is probably for the best. Bunker rules: No Winchester drama before the first cup of coffee.

            Sam opens his mouth, probably to wax poetic about the wonders of walking free in glorious nature and _blah blah exercise blah_ when he suddenly stops short, frowning. He stares at Dean hard enough that furrows appear in that freakish Cro-Magnon forehead of his. “Yeah, I am,” he says eventually, considering, and Dean, feeling like a freak of nature on display – like a fish that refuses to swim – is about to snap at him to _get to the point_ when he continues, “And you . . . most definitely _aren’t_.”

            “Since when have you ever known me to be a morning person?” Dean asks, keeping his eyes carefully trained on his refilled coffee as he takes a sip.

              “Well, for a guy who ostensibly had his world rocked last night, I thought there would be more of a spring to your step today. Well, maybe not literally.” Sam’s gaze flicks away from Dean’s face and down before darting away uncomfortably, Sam suddenly becoming extremely interested in a fleck of dirt on the countertop, and Dean could not possibly have done anything in this life or during his stint in Hell to have deserved this conversation. Suddenly, offering himself up like the sacrificial blonde to Godstiel doesn’t seem all that bad. Sam, however, stubbornly plows on, unwilling to let an insignificant thing like crippling embarrassment get in the way of him making his all-sacred point. "Instead, you’re out here, pouting at the coffeemaker like it keyed your car. So, I guess what I’m trying to say here is . . .” He makes a useless hand gesture. “. . . What gives?”

            “What gives is that I gave you the birds an’ bees talk over twenty years ago and I thought it had stuck,” Dean says nonchalantly, choosing to continue slouching against the counter over the more risky proposition of having a seat on the cold metal chairs.

            Sam’s frustrated expression deepens. “Dean –”

            “Which means,” Dean continues, “you should know well enough by now that one night of bumpin’ uglies doesn’t end with an exchange of promise rings.” He puts his coffee mug down on the counter and looks Sam dead in the eye, says completely seriously, “I’m don’t know what you want me to say, Sammy. How do you think it went? The sex was –” He falters, but only momentarily. “What you would expect. One for the spank bank." Sam makes a face at his crude choice of wording, and Dean works to plaster a leer he doesn't feel on his face. "But at the end of the day it was nothing more than a business transaction. Emmanuel gets to go back to playing house with Daphne and Misha will continue making garbage sitcoms until -" Dean cuts off abruptly, breathes deeply through his nose before he can get any more worked up, and ends quietly with a sardonic smile, "Well, you know how well that ended for him. But he didn’t want to be here anymore than we did, so I lent him a hand.” He pauses, considers the innuendo. “So to speak. Everyone wins.”

            He slurps pointedly from his mug, a clear signal that this conversation is over and done with, ready to be packed up and forgotten about.

            He watches dispassionately as Sam's arms make a motion like he's about to place them on his hips before apparently thinking better of it and crossing them over his chest. "You expect me to believe it meant nothing to you?"

"I don't really care what you believe," Dean replies truthfully. The quiet disappointment in Sam's voice had rankled, but he stomps down on any outward aggression. "None of this concerns you, so you'd do well to butt the hell out of my private business." He mutters into his coffee, “ _Jesus, you’re worse than the fangirls_.”

            Sam's mouth folds into a narrow line, and for one shining moment Dean believes Sam might have finally learned to recognize a lost cause, until his gaze flickers down. Smirking, he edges around Dean to grab his own coffee mug dish rack. "Nice toes, then. Did the sex do that, too?" 

Dean looks down before he can't stop himself, and his eye-searing orange-and-neon-green painted toes stare back at him. He curses himself for his carelessness. Flustered, he hurries to casually brush it off, "It was Mish – I mean, Misha's idea. Dude's got like a fetish or something."

            "Yeah, whatever, Dean," Sam says, tired of arguing in circles with him. He waves the mug in Dean's face. "You gonna pour me a cup or what, jerk?"

            Dean silently obliges, suddenly feeling a little deflated. “Sure you want this, Mr. My-Body-is-a-Temple?” he mutters as he hands the steaming mug over.

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches. “It’s called being healthier, Dean, not becoming a masochist.”

“Is there a difference?”

By unspoken agreement, they allow a momentary ceasefire so they can drink their coffee in uneasy silence, each combatant returning to their respective corners to await the bell. Which in this case means Sam folding his bulky frame in the cumbersome seats attached to the kitchen table while Dean busies himself by frying up some eggs for the two of them, his passive-aggressive way of ignoring the strained silence. Though he pretends to be fiddling with his phone, periodically Dean feels Sam's gaze on him, burning holes into the back of his head, though his eyes are diligently trained on the tiny screen whenever Dean looks over his shoulder. Dean grits his teeth and does his best to ignore it. Better the silent kind of motherhenning than the overly loud, haranguing kind.

Sam's phone chirps, breaking the silence.

"Oh, hey." Phone in hand, he clears his throat as Dean moves to put a plate of steaming eggs down in front of him. "So, uh . . . Cas checked-in.”

Dean stills. “Where?”

“Uh, looks like some motel on the edge of Centennial.” Sam’s eyes flick between Dean and the plate of food he still holds captive in his hand. “You gonna, or should I . . . ?”

With a frustrated shake of his head, Dean hands him the plate, ignoring his brother’s gloating smirk as he pads back to the stove.

“Centennial . . . Isn’t that in Colorado? What happened to checking out angel sightings in Pittsburgh?” A prickle of unease dances along his neck, just as it always does when Dean gets the sense that Cas is about to do something incredibly stupid.

Sam, however, doesn’t seem to share the same concerns, attention drifting back to his phone as he shovels a hearty portion of eggs into his moose-sized mouth. And he calls _Dean_ the slob. “Dunno. Maybe he decided to take a day trip and hit the slopes instead.”

Dean chuckles despite himself, momentarily indulging in the mental image of Castiel on skis, wearing nothing more than his trench and suit, a fuzzy pink hat, and a blue scarf wrapped tightly around half up half of his face. In his head, Cas is being outstripped by passing kids on wooden sleds – or whatever it is normal people do when they go to mountain resorts. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

“Oh, nice. It’s one of the better name-brand chains. Definite step up from where we usually hole up.” He flips the phone around to show Dean the picture on the screen: a bland-looking motel room with a white walls and dark greenish carpet, Cas’s finger cutting across the top right corner of the screen.

Dean, who’s been ping-ponging from light-headed relief to jealousy-tainted annoyance during this entire info dump, only grunts as he spares the briefest glance at the phone before scraping the remaining eggs onto his own plate with more violence than strictly necessary, “No accounting for taste, then.”   

He takes a moment to furtively check his own phone. _No new messages_ , it states without sympathy. He makes an ugly face at it in retaliation.

Sam scoffs quietly. “Maybe Cas just prefers cable TV and non-lumpy beds over cowboy-themed wallpaper with mirrors on the ceiling.”

“Well, maybe Cas’ll change his mind when he sees a room with Magic Fingers. Show me one of your fancy chains that can top _that_.” Still forgoing a chair, Dean starts wolfing down his own breakfast/lunch/not-brunch, though it’s hard to rev up his usual enthusiasm when it feels like something heavy has settled in the pit of his stomach. “Sounds like he’s all set, then,” he mutters darkly between bites. “Mr. Badass Hunter doesn’t need backup or anything?”

“Nah, I offered last night, but he declined. Said he’ll call if he runs across anything particularly hairy. He still has the credit cards and ID you set him up with, though, so he should be good for at least a few weeks,” Sam answers, but he sounds distracted, eyes still glued to his phone.

It’s Dean’s turn to scoff. “Dude looked like he’d gone ten rounds with the flu yesterday, and still had another five to go. You really think letting him go looking for his bag of dicks family was such a great idea? Look what happened when he was healthy!”

Sam huffs, patience clearly wearing thin. “I _know_ that, Dean, but I really don’t think there was anything I could have done to convince Cas to stay, even for just another night or two. He, uh . . . seemed convinced that giving you your space was the best possible thing for the both of you at the moment.” He adds after a moment’s consideration, “Not that Cas seems comfortable hanging around the bunker after the whole Gadreel thing, to be honest.”

 _After I gave him the heave-ho, you mean._ Shame laps at him like the returning tide. He remembers what Charlie said about Cas looking lonely. _I’ve really fucked things up lately, haven’t I, buddy?_ Dean thinks, before remembering with a pang that Cas isn’t picking up his prayers anymore. Somehow, the distance between them feels greater than before, and he doesn’t mean just geologically.

          Abashed, Dean breaks his gaze. “Right,” he acknowledges sheepishly, tapping his fork anxiously against his plate.  “Yeah, no, I get it. I do.” He wearily rubs his knuckles against his unshaven cheek. “Guess I’ve had the cold shoulder treatment coming to me for a while now, huh?”

            “I don’t think Cas is punishing you, Dean,” his brother tells him reproachfully, though his expression has softened in touch, most likely in sympathy (or amusement) of the mopey, moonstruck idiot his older brother has become. “You don’t blame him for touching the amulet and causing this mess in the first place, do you?

            Dean scowls, immediately offended, and Sam grins unrepentantly at his predictability.

            “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Two completely different situations, Sam,” Dean grouches, carelessly tossing his plate into the sink. “And Cas knows that. That’s why he left.”

            His brother just shrugs, that sly, calculating gleam returning to his eye; Dean resists the urge to roll his. It’d be almost funny – if it wasn’t so damn patronizing – that Sam thinks that by being patient and prodding at the right times he can be the catalyst that sparks Dean into realizing he has feelings for Cas that go beyond brother-in-arms, or whatever is it Sam thinks Dean doesn’t actually know about himself. He may be emotionally stunted, but even he’s not that stupid. The problem has always been Castiel – Castiel leaving, Dean not being good enough to stay. Nothing about the clone conundrum has changed that other than pushing certain things to light. “Maybe, maybe not. Doesn’t really matter since neither of you will swallow your pride and just, you know, _talk_ to each other.”

            Dean makes a cross with his fingers to ward off Sam’s nagging. “Hey, hey, hey, now - don’t you start. Charlie already beat you to the punch. I promised her I would drop Cas a line later today and lay it all out for him.” He runs a distracted hand though his hair. More to himself, he mutters, “It’ll work out . . . somehow. We always figure a way out.”

“Just returning to the same status quo?” Sam prods, sounding resigned, but at Dean’s dark look, he takes the hint that he’s finally pushed his luck too far. Clearing his throat, he leans his massive frame back in his chair and cheerily says, “So what else is on the agenda for the day? Are you still, gonna, uh . . .” Sam falters before making a helpless face that plainly states how much he doesn’t want to discuss the particulars of his brother boning the Cas doppelgangers.

               “Dunno.” Dean shrugs, resigning himself to arguably the most awkward conversation of his life. “The cat’s out of the bag, so that changes everything. Except with Leviathan, I never directly sought any of them out. Jimmy and Angel Cas just sort of . . . happened.” He looks away, the back of his neck heating. If Sam notices, he wisely doesn’t comment. “Guess I’ll just have to resort to my charms and devilish good looks and see who bites.”

            “Even the Fake-God?” Sam asks quietly, real concern in those puppy-dog eyes that, perhaps incongruously, has Dean feeling like he’s 12 years old all over again, reassuring his floppy-haired little brother that the monsters he was only beginning to understand were real weren’t going to be getting him anytime soon, not with Dean out there hunting them.

            Dean shrugs with feigned nonchalance. “Don’t have much of a choice, now do I? We couldn’t kill him last time, and I seriously doubt Death is interested in helping us, even for a Gordita Crunch. Unless you’re okay with him being a permanent fixture in the dungeon like some blood-soaked, trenchcoated lamp, I don’t see any other options.”

He watches apprehensively as Sam’s brow wrinkles in consternation, the face he gets when he’s about to say something he knows Dean isn’t going to like one bit. “Dean, if this is too much for you . . . I mean, I can, uh, try my hand at – well, not my hand, per say . . . there’s no reason it can’t be _me_.”

Dean’s vision goes red.

“Fuck off,” he says succinctly, fighting back waves of indignant rage and revulsion. “Do you honestly think I’d let my baby brother be _touched_ by that . . . that _thing_?”

Just thinking of Godstiel’s bloodied fingers reaching out for Sam has Dean nearly retching back up his breakfast. And then - like a dream, no, a nightmare, forgotten until its ghost triggered by a mundane connection - a hazy memory resurfaces: An icy touch like dead skin, a black viscous substance sticky on his upper thighs, and a voice like the chittering of countless insects, _perhaps it’s time we put you in your place, little human._

Dean closes his eyes, involuntarily shudders. A chilled sweat has broken along his forehead.  He knows immediately what that was - Angel Cas’s mind-bandaid must be wearing off, now that he’s gone. “Just - no. No no no. Absolutely friggin’ not.”

            “Okay, okay, _I get it_.” Sam immediately throws his hands up in surrender. “Jeez, no need to bite my head off. It was merely a suggestion. Crazy idea, I know, just thought maybe for once you could stop being such a damn martyr and let someone else shoulder the burden for once.”

            “Wow, yeah,” Dean drawls sarcastically, fortifying himself with another cup of coffee. The warmth helps chase off the foggy memories, however lukewarm it may be. “I’m such a terrible person for not letting my baby brother get fucked by a god gone mad with power.” He gives Sam a critical side-eye. “You’re too ugly anyways.”

Sam snorts, looking heavensward as though asking their dead parents or whoever else may be watching if anyone else has suffered as much as Sam has. “Whatever, jerk. Just try not to catch something.

Dean makes a face of horror. “For real, though, what if I do? Like an angelic STD?’’ His eyes widen further. “Dude, what if I got angelic crabs?”

“I’d definitely double-bag it for Future Cas, if I were you.” Sam’s face goes thoughtful. “For what it’s worth, you’ve really jumped into the whole ‘unattached gay sex thing’ better than I expected.” Then, his eyes narrow. “Or do you think you’re still straight if you don’t bottom? Because -”

            Sputtering, Dean throws Sam the most disparaging look he can muster. “I always knew I liked guys, you dick! I’m emotionally constipated, not sexually repressed!”

To his credit, Sam has the decency to look sheepish after recovering from his initial surprise. “Oh. My bad. I always thought Cas was like, your bisexual awakening. You were always so adamant that your Swayze obsession was just a man crush.”

Dean groans and buries his face in his forearm. “Oh, my God, Sam, how many heart-to-hearts can we have in one day? We’re not even in the Impala.”

            Sam smiles. “We’ve definitely exceeded our quota.”

            “So you’re cool with it, right? Me and the - and the thing-” Dean blurts out before he can shove the words back down where no one will ever see them. A wild panic claws up his throat -

            Sam’s brows pull down in confusion. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh. Good. Whatever,” he scowls half-heartedly, distracting himself the relief making his chest feel all light and fluttery. He pushes away from the counter, hiding a wince at the slight still present in his ass. “I gotta go. Got shit to do today, people to do.”

            Sam snorts before his face suddenly erupts into an impish grin. In an overly dramatic voice, like that douchebag movie announcer guy, he announces, “In a world gone wrong, salvation can only come at the hands of one man. One man, and his di -”  
            “Ugh,” Dean groans, thoroughly sick of this day, his life, and this smug talking tree he calls family. “You can take your gallows humor and shove it, okay? I’m gonna go call Cas before I write my will.” When Sam goes silent, Dean glances at him, only to see his stony expression. “ _Kidding_ ,” he insists.

            “Har har,” is Sam’s only response.

            “Seriously, though,” he says, rolling the cricks out of his neck before draining the last of his coffee and depositing the mug carefully in the sink. “I’m gonna go call Cas.” After he gets some pants on, he mentally adds. At this point, the idea of talking to Cas in his robe and boxers seems like he’s deliberately courting the universe for more trouble. “You wanna deal with your girly emotions, you go find Crazy Cas.”

            Instead of taking the bait, Sam calls out to Dean before he exits the kitchen. “Hey, Dean, when you talk to Cas . . . just be honest, okay? I know Cas will appreciate it. Don’t screw up your second chance.”

            “Thank, Sam.” Dean looks at his brother, all 6 feet how many hundred inches of him, his long hair that has frankly seen better styles, the bags under his eyes that have been growing smaller with each passing day. Before he can chicken out, he adds softly, “I know you this isn’t what you want to hear, right now, but I want you to know - there will always be a horrible, selfish part of me that won’t even regret making that deal with Gadreel.”

Sam’s eyes are sad yet resigned as he gazes back at Dean, still sitting motionless at the kitchen table. “I know you would, Dean. And that’s why we keep ending back up here.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Dean mutters as he takes his leave.

            It’s only as Dean’s leaving the kitchen that he thinks Sam looked a little wistful at the end there. For the first time, Dean wonders if Sam’s not the only lonely one here. Maybe, just maybe, he’s even a little bit jealous.

 

 

            When Dean steps outside of the bunker for the first time in what feels like a month, it’s to a crisp, Kansas winter afternoon, his breath curling into a plume of smoke in front of him. Dean pauses to breathe in a deep lungful, savoring the taste of fresh, non-recycled air. The sky overhead is overcast, the world around him stark in the weak sunlight that filters through the iron-gray clouds. He can already feel the tips of his ears pinkening with the cold. No doubt there’ll be snow later – all the more reason Dean needs to make this quick.

            Boots crunching on the dried leaves that have collected outside their doorstep because nobody ever bothers raking them up, Dean pulls his cell phone from his coat as he takes a seat on the small set of steps outside of the bunker, grimacing as the coldness of the concrete seeps in through the denim of his jeans. He deliberates while scrolling back and forth through his list of contacts – ah, who the hell does he think he’s kidding? He knows full well that he’s stalling, that Cas’s call won’t be the first one he makes.

            Then again, it’s not like his first call is for pleasure, either. He didn't mention this to Sam because of obvious reasons, but he just might have a weapon to protect himself against Godstiel. 

            “Still can’t believe this number actually works,” Dean mutters to himself as he presses “6” three times on the screen before holding the phone to his ear, shoving his other hand deep in his coat pocket.

With each proceeding ring Dean’s jaw clenches tighter and tighter, until by the tenth ring he’s sure he has damn near cracked a molar. It takes so long that he gets up before his ass freezes to the steps to pace in a tight, frustrated circle, and when he’s just about ready to say to hell with it he finally, _finally_ gets a response, only to realize it’s the fucking voicemail.

 _“You’ve reached the King of Hell. I’m currently tied up handling the daily trials of running the Infernal Kingdom, but please, feel free to leave whatever insipid query or request you have with your name and contact information. That way, I’ll know exactly what to call whichever ground-crawling, hoof-licking inbreed dared to presume THAT THEY COULD PESTER ME WITH THEIR INANE WHINING RIGHT BEFORE I FEED THEIR ENTRAILS TO MY HOUNDS!! . . ._ _If you’d like to send a fax, press the star key. Otherwise, leave a message after the beep. Cheers.”_

“Where the hell are you, you limey bastard?” Dean growls into the receiver. “It’s been _weeks_. How long does it take to search one friggin’ ocean trench?” Even to his own ears, he sounds hysterical. He needs to get a fucking grip on himself; the very last thing he needs right now is for Crowley to come snooping around. “Look – something unexpected has come up, alright? I’ve hit a snag and I’m going to need the First Blade ahead of schedule. Not a week from now or whatever, but ASAP.” Dean instinctively lowers his voice, even though he’s pretty sure even Godstiel’s preternatural hearing can’t extend outside of the bunker’s warding. Or at least, he hopes it can’t. “And trust me, it’s in your best interest. What we’ve got locked down here – If he escapes, he’ll come gunning for you first, and he’ll make Abaddon look like little orphan Annie having a tantrum. So get your snorkel strapped on, put on some swim trunks, and _find that Blade_.”

            Dean ends the call without a parting message. 

“So much for stalling,” he mutters, refusing to acknowledge the anxiety creeping up on him like so many gnarled vines. But now Dean’s officially run out of excuses. Not giving himself time to second-guess himself and chicken out, Dean dials Cas’s number by memory, resisting the urge to tap his foot against the ground as he waits; he settles for leaning against the concrete half-wall and drumming his fingers impatiently against his thigh.

            This call begins much the same as the first, the line ringing, and ringing, and ringing some more, a seemingly endless procession that’s practically murdering Dean’s nerves. Which is why when Cas’s toneless voicemail finally does pick up – _This is me. I can’t answer at the moment. Which should be obvious if you’re listening to this_ \- and asks him to leave a message after the beep, Dean thoughtlessly snaps out, “ _Pick up the goddamn phone, Cas_! No, wait. Goddammit, fuck. Delete that. I’m just gonna – shit.”

            He bolts and snaps the phone shut, just barely stopping himself from hurling the phone away like it’s a live grenade. It’s only as he’s calming down that it occurs to Dean that he could have simply re-recorded the message.

            “Motherfu –” Dean sighs heavily, closing his eyes at his presses the phone to his face. “God _dammit_.”

            Above Dean, the winter birds chitter in the bare trees like they’re laughing at him.

This is ridiculous. He’s not even entirely sure why he’s acting like such a damn chicken-shit, yet here he is, palms sweating and butterflies dancing a Samba in his stomach. He’s too damn old to be feeling like this, to be having these _jitters_. For fuck sakes, it’s not like he actually thinks Castiel will suddenly become possessed with the spirit of John Winchester and call Dean every degrading name in the book while Dean meekly takes the abuse. If he’s being honest with himself, probably what Dean fears more than Castiel’s angry words is his theoretical disappointment in Dean, his unspoken _disgust_. That Dean is already too late, and no matter what he says, Cas will never look at him the same way again, forever knowing what kind of perverted thoughts have gotten their hooks in Dean’s brain.

Or worse, that all Dean will ending up doing with his clumsy words and defensive anger is further driving the wedge between him and Castiel, pushing Cas right into the arms of another April for comfort. Someone who, this time, could be permanent. . . .

            Or maybe . . . maybe Dean’s just scared that there will be no arguing at all when he calls Cas. No uncomfortable silences. That it’ll be easy to confess this all started when Dean had sex with Jimmy simply because he wanted to. That Castiel will willingly agree to return to the bunker, because he’ll have realized it doesn’t matter to him if Dean has sex with his doppelganger. He won’t be mad at Dean. He won’t flinch when Future Cas’s hand lingers on Dean’s forearm a second too long or when Godstiel suddenly isn’t in the dungeon. He just won’t care. The remaining clones will leave, and Dean and Cas will continue being Dean and Cas, as they as have, and always will be.

            Because even as a human, Castiel still won’t want Dean the way Dean wants him.

            Dean’s fingers go numb with the cold the longer he stands there like a dumbass, waffling. “Okay. Alright. Let’s do this. Cowboy up, Winchester.” With deliberate slowness, Dean redials Cas’s number. He doesn’t tap his toe as he waits, just measures his breaths with the pace of his heartbeat. When the voicemail wraps up, he’s ready, uses Sam’s advice and just says what he feels.

            “Hey, Cas. It’s, uh . . . it’s me. Dean, obviously. Look, buddy, I’m just calling to say–” He takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry for how things went down yesterday.” He chuckles humorlessly. “Sorry for a lot of recent stuff, actually. Not that that makes any of it right. I should have told you from the beginning, I know that now, I just . . . I don’t know, I didn’t know _how_ to tell you. Pretty lame, I know, but you already knew what a loser I am,” he saying, grinning into the mouthpiece. “If you . . . if you don’t want to come back to the bunker just yet, if you need your space until all this blows over, I get it, I do. Do what you gotta do, I won’t be mad, promise. Just . . . be careful, okay? There’s still a lot of angels out there gunning for you. Know that you can always call me if you get caught in a sticky situation. Or Sam, you know, if you want,” he tacks on uncertainly.

He feels like he should say more, like _how could you leave when I need you more than ever_? but figures it’s best to quit while he’s ahead. Dean blows out a gusty exhale, rocking back on his heels. “Well, guess that’s it, then. Hope to see you soon. And – and make sure you change your voicemail, you weirdo,” he adds, trying for gruff and not the complete lunatic he probably sounds like. He shuts his phone off before he can make any more of a fool out of himself.

The last thing Dean’s expecting at the moment is an immediate response, so when his phone buzzes, he startles before fumbling to look at the screen, a bubble of hope rising in his chest – only to scowl when he reads the contact name.

_Limey douchebag: Do I look like Amazon to you!? I don’t do two-day shipping! Sorry, squirrel, but you’re on your own. Try not to die. Kisses_

“Bastard,” Dean hisses, though admittedly it lacks the usual venom he reserves specifically for Crowley. This whole gambit had been a long shot anyways. He doesn’t even know for sure that the First Blade could work against an angel powered to unholy levels by Purgatory souls. Would have been nice to have a little leverage going up against Godstiel, though.

The way everything seems to be headed, it’s all shaping up to be another shitshow, Leviathan Cas part two. Dean suddenly feels lightheaded, his stomach roiling, gag reflex threatening to convulse, and he _swears_ his feels back goo drip down the back of his neck, but of course, when he touches his hand to the skin, it comes back clean.

When the bunker door swings open with its usual grinding screech, Dean nearly jumps out of his skin, hastily shoving his phone guilty into his jacket, making a mental note to delete the incriminating text later. But it’s not Sam come snooping around like he expected, and he lets himself relax just a smidge, even as a strong whiff of spicy, pungent smoke pervades the chilled air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was the end of the chapter. I hope it'll hold you guys over for the more interesting stuff.
> 
> One final thing: to anyone who has ever come out (whether by force or by choice), you are incredibly brave, and I support all of you. I say this because I tried a lot of different ways to have Dean openly admitting to Sam that he's bisexual (in his own unique choice of words, of course), and writing a sappy, emotional scene never seemed to fit, so I went the more brusque path. It was not my intent to make the act of revealing one's true identity trite or flippant, it merely seemed to me the way Dean would want to do it(in this verse, at least).
> 
> Despite everything, I'm looking forward to s13 and Wayward Sisters. Find me on tumblr: I-am-mad-as-a-box-of-frogs
> 
> I'll also be at Pittcon in September, including Kim and Briana's pj party if you want to say hi.


End file.
